


Steelbent

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Deaf Dave, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 32,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After meeting a group of classical fencers sparring in the park near his house, a four-year-old Karkat Vantas became entranced by the wonders of swordsmanship. He went to sport fencing classes, though he quickly grew bored of their emphasis on competition and returned to consulting with the odd park-based group. Even after they stopped coming to the park, he's continued learning.</p><p>However, there's an obvious problem with this particular hobby, and that happens to be the fact that no one his age practices it. Well... No one he <i>knows</i> practises it. When he meets a pair of odd siblings in the park, though, this fact quickly becomes fiction. Of the two, one obviously shares Karkat's odd hobby, and his name is Dave Strider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone interested, this story was partially inspired by a memory I forgot about until recently. I live near a park and, when I was younger (and probably up until I was twelve) a group of five to six guys used to go into the park with sticks and fight like they were using swords. I have no idea who they were or why they stopped coming, but I always thought it was pretty cool. So, naturally, when I remembered this particular fact, I decided to twist it around to suit fanfiction. (Oops.) Congrats. That was your fun fact of the millennia.

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you’ll never be the armour-clad hero of any real-life romance.

You’ll never be a knight in shining steel plates, nor a dashing cavalry swordsman. No one wants those types of guys, anyhow. Hell, those people don’t even exist any more, unless you’re at a convention or something; but, even then, they don’t actually fight. They won’t spar with you or anything. Their weapons are just flashy props half of the time, anyhow.

So what was the point? What was the point of teaching yourself all these skills? Nothing.

There was no point.

You wanted to be a hero; but, you’ll never be one.

 _Schling._ You draw your steel, AHF-legal, rapier from its scabbard.

It doesn’t matter that this hobby is useless. You enjoy it. Perhaps other people don’t understand; but, that doesn’t matter, either. What matters is that it’s something you love. It’s something that keeps you from going completely berserk.

 _Thunk_! The edge, though blunted, manages to brand a superficial notch into the base of the thick tree you usually take your aggressions out upon. Bark falls away from the surface in small chunks and gathers in the grass beneath. A few bugs which had been hiding beneath the bark skitter away, their shiny backs disappearing rapidly amongst the dry, golden yellow grass.

Satisfied by this display of aggression against an innocent tree, you proceed to pry the sword from its superficial indent. You aim to take another technique-less swing at the tree, drawing the blade back like a baseball player prepares himself to bat. Then, you swing.

 _Cr-ching_. Your blade stops short of the tree, its unskillfully launched attack having been intercepted by an outside force. Normally, you’d disregard such an event as being the fault of a stray tree branch or a disapproving senior (you’ve had more than one safety-fanatical senior block your wild hacking and slashing with a sturdy cane). This time, however, you can’t dismiss it.

You can’t dismiss the sound it made—that distinct, ringing clash of metal against metal. It’s far too high pitched to be anything like a walking stick or pole; yet, it clearly doesn’t emanate from something hollow, such as a pipe. No, this metallic ringing could only be the result of the collision of a blade against a blade.

You pry your eyes away from the insignificant wound you’ve inflicted upon the tree, and upwards, towards the source of the sound. A slightly dirty, though structurally sound, shell-cup-hilted rapier greets your gaze, and its wielder—a pale teen with blond hair who, by outward appearances, seems to be about your age—acknowledges you as an opponent with a confident smirk.

Before you can process this phenomenon, however, a voice speaks up from behind you.

“I told him not to do it, but he rather poignantly resisted my reasonable suggestions. I apologise for his lack of social grace...”

Shocked by this sudden interruption of the park’s usual silence, you spin about, at which point you find yourself staring at another blonde.

“For formality’s sake, I’ll say that my name is Rose LaLonde. ‘Rose’ is a perfectly acceptable moniker, though. Continuing in the vein of introductory statements, I might as well point out that the rude prick behind you is my twin brother, Dave Strider. Now, assuming that you’re like most of the population, probability dictates that your next question is one of two things. The first is why I’m speaking instead of him. The latter inquiry would likely pertain to the topic of how we’re related if we have a different patronymic. So, being that this is a conversation and not a long-winded lecture, I may as well ask you which of the questions you wish to have answered first. Or, perhaps, you’re a statistical anomaly and you have a completely different question?”

This novel-sized response meets you as soon as you turn around, providing you with a good deal of rather reasonable shock. After all, you normally don’t meet people in the park with swords (unless they’re you) and, on top of that, a majority of strangers don’t greet others with the complexly-worded academic greeting you’ve just received.

Of course, the blonde in front of you doesn’t seem too bothered by this. In fact, she’s busy straightening her headband as she awaits your response. A quick glance behind you, however, reveals that the male—Dave, apparently—is obscenely annoyed by his sister’s greeting.

“I— I... What?” you stammer back, completely bewildered by the entire situation.

“That was a bit overwhelming, wasn’t it? I apologise. I just wanted to make sure a few things were made clear before this undoubtedly violent interaction begins. First and foremost, our last names differ from one another’s due to the fact that I took my mother’s last name and he took my father’s. It’s a simultaneous patronymic and metronymic...”

“No... I really just want to know what the fuck is going on here!” you interrupt her statement with your own, loudly stated input. “Look, I’m sure your life story and his life story are pretty goddamn fascinating, but I’d much rather know what the hell is happening here. Why in the name of whatever religious figurehead you happen to revere is it that he has a sword!? Why haven’t I ever seen either of you in my fuck-knows-how-many years of coming to this shitstain of a park!?”

To your surprise, Rose doesn’t seem to be very shocked by your reaction; or, if she is, she’s hiding it well. “Well, if that’s the case, I guess I should elaborate. Dave and I just moved here after a recent familial death. The doctors recommended that Dave be taken away from his familiar environment to better cope with the situation and, aside from that, my mother was promoted to a position necessitating this relocation. So, does that explain why you’ve never seen us before?”

“Yeah,” you respond, still a bit taken aback by her lack of reaction. (It’s not that you like making people freak out. You’re just naturally heavy-handed when it comes to social situations. You’ve tried to fix it, but it never really works out.) “And he has a sword...?”

“Due to the fact that he refuses to drop the inherently useless and ridiculous hobby. Perhaps he will after he’s fully cognitive of what’s occurred, though I doubt it,” she returns matter-of-factly.

“Well... That answers all of my questions,” you grumble.

“Great!” Rose responds with a small grin. “So, then, would you mind if Dave had a sparring match with you?”

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea... But, sure... Whatever... What rules are there?” you reply with a shrug. As you’re speaking, you lean over and pick up your fencing mask. You rarely use it, of course, seeing as you’re usually lacking another person to fence with (especially due to the fact that you’re a historical fencer rather than a sport fencer); but, you carry it around for safety’s sake. Additionally, you wear your protective equipment whenever you go out for one of your hack-and-slash rounds.

“Whatever rules there are for classical fencing. I’m not an expert on the topic; he is. I’d suggest you ask him,” before continuing her statement, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a beaten-up iPhone. She shoves the electronic device into you free hand and continues with her speech. “Disregard the wear and tear on this device. It still works, and you’ll be needing it if you want to talk with Dave.”

“I— Why the fuck do I need this?” you sputter back.

To this, Rose responds by discretely inclining her head towards Dave’s left ear. Naturally, your gaze follows this gesture and, within seconds, you notice what she’s pointing out—a bright red hearing aid.

“Oh...” you reply as you mentally beat yourself up for failing to notice this detail earlier. “So does he...?”

“Ask him. I’m leaving. Fencing is not a sport which I am particularly fond of, and I never really liked how Dave was introduced to it, anyhow.”

Before you can so much as open your mouth, she turns and wanders off. Her long black skirt and muted pink tee shirt quickly fade into the distance and, in less than a minute, you find yourself alone with her brother.

Seeing as you’re uncertain of what you’re supposed to do, you glance at the worn-out Apple device in your hands. Upon its screen, which is split almost perfectly in half by a prominent crack, is the standard messaging screen. The phone identifies the receiving party as “Dave Strider” and, to your surprise, there’s already a message.

“ _sorry about the sister she means well though and she can be nice when she feels like it shes just mad at me for the whole introduction thing_ ”

After reading this, you glance towards him. You notice the nervous half-smile playing at the edges of his mouth and, finally, stop to think about the fact that he’s just as nervous about this as you are. From what you can tell, he didn’t really want to get into formal introductions. He just noticed you hacking away at a tree with a rapier and saw an opportunity to practice an art form that’s rather hard to practice alone (as it so often is). You set down your helmet and turn your attentions to the phone, slightly more encouraged by this revelation.

“ _NO. THAT’S FINE AND... THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT IS STUCK IN CAPS LOCK. YOU KNOW THAT, DON’T YOU?_ ”

To your surprise, your response is received with a quiet snort of laughter.

_“yeah that shits pretty goddamn old but it still works for this so we keep it and deal with it like the semiaverage consumer”_

_“WELL IT’S KIND OF ANNOYING, SEEING AS I’M RATHER LOUD WITHOUT HAVING A BROKEN PHONE RUBBING THAT FACT IN MY FACE.”_

_“i cant tell the difference either way so i dont really give a flying rainbow colored fuck about if youre yelling or not but im sure the other people at the park would care so i dont think its a good idea”_

You can’t help but let a small smile slip past your defenses as you read the message.

_“THIS PARK IS ALWAYS FULL OF OLD FARTS AND TEENAGERS WITH TOO MUCH MONEY, TIME, AND WEED. I DON’T REALLY THINK ANYONE WOULD CARE THAT MUCH IF I JUST STARTED TO SCREAM. THEY DON’T MIND ME SMASHING A SWORD AGAINST THIS GODDAMN TREE, SO I THINK WE CAN SAFELY ASSUME THAT YELLING PROBABLY ISN’T SOMETHING THEY’D GIVE A FUCK ABOUT..”_

Another snort of laughter slips past Dave’s defenses as he reads your response. As he begins his response, however, two simultaneous events interrupt him. The first (and most obvious for him) is the reappearance of his sister; the second is a rumble of thunder splitting through the relatively quiet atmosphere.

“Well, neither of you happens to be deceased at this current point in time, so that’s a good sign,” a rain-drenched Rose mutters as she wanders over towards Dave. “Unfortunately, Dave and I have to go. It’s pouring down rain on our side of town and Mom and I have just discovered five wonderful little leaks in our roof.”

Before you can say anything in response, Rose grabs the phone from you (whilst also giving you an apologetic look) and sends Dave a text. Then, after Dave offers you a parting nod, the two of them depart

Thunder rumbles through the air once more after they pair disappears and, seeing as the sky is rapidly growing ominously dark, you decide that it’s best for you to go home, as well. You gather your things.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a link in this chapter and, if you mouse over it, it'll give you some information. If you can't or don't feel like hovering over the link: it leads to an image and opens in a new window.

“I wasn’t aware that you worked here. What a pleasant surprise.”

A familiar voice draws your eyes away from the cash register and towards the source—Rose LaLonde.

Behind her, you can see the usual lines of bookshelves, all filled with everything from children’s books to erotica and manga. Beside her, you notice a rather bored Dave Strider browsing through a rotating display of bookmarks.

“Oh... I... What’re you doing here?” you respond nervously.

“I’m here looking for a new dog. No, seriously, I’m here for a book. What else would I be here for?” she replies shortly.

“Well... I figured as much... Why’re you _at the customer service desk_ , though?”

At this point, you can’t help but notice the subtlest hint of a smirk flashing briefly across her face. “Well, I know what _I’m_ looking for. However, I also happen to be looking for something suitable for Dave to read. He’s not exactly a huge fan of literature, and I’m trying to get him more interested in it. After all, literature is a good coping mechanism,” she replies with a shrug.

“Well, then I guess you can go look for whatever the h— I mean... Go look for whatever it is you’re looking for. I’ll help Dave,” you return somewhat nervously.

“That sounds fantastic,” Rose says. “He’s also supposed to be practicing his speech right now, so I figured this would be a good exercise for him. I doubt he’ll actually comply. He’ll probably just try texting; but, I’d prefer if you try and get him to verbalise his feelings. Either way, you should talk to him rather than reaffirming his poor habits. If there are any problems, I’ll be in the romance section.”

Romance? Did she say romance? You fucking love romance... Wait... No. That’s not a relevant thought right now...

“Okay then, I’ll try and—” Before you can so much as finish your sentence, Rose has disappeared once again. It’s as if her actions are carefully scripted; or, perhaps, they just follow a formulaic pattern...

 _Clunk._ An iPhone is dropped onto the desk, into your field of vision.

_“i dont want any damn book and i dont give a fuck about what she says im not talking for you”_

After reading the message, you raise your gaze towards a rather irritable-looking Dave. His arms are folded, and his jaw clenched firmly shut. Clearly, he’s not about to give you anything. He’s dead set upon remaining silent, and you’re not going to try and dissuade him—a person you barely know—from doing something that he’s obviously more comfortable with. Still, you figure you might as well comply with Rose’s other request and try talking to him...

“Okay then... Well... I’m sure I can fix the first part of that statement, at the very least...” As you speak, you unconsciously reach for the pen in your pocket and your nervous habit of repeatedly clicking the retractable pen’s button kicks in. “What types of movies do you like?”

Dave, in return, stares at you for a moment or so before taking back the phone and typing in a message.

_“i really hate to ask this but could you go back and say that again but slower?”_

You sigh and nudge the phone back to him after reading the message. “Movies. I’m asking you what types of movies you like,” you repeat yourself, making sure to clearly articulate your words.

_“action movies”_

“Is that it?” you reply, quirking a brow upwards as you do so. (In your experience, you’ve never met anyone who will affirm that they only like just _one_ type of movie. They may not admit to it up front, but a bit of pressing usually yields more information to work with.) “Give me a few examples. Maybe some titles or a series?”

He chews on his lower lip for a moment and thoughtfully taps his index fingers against the sides of the phone. After a few seconds, he begins typing something; however, you can see in his glasses’ reflection that he quickly rethinks whatever he’s typing, as he rapidly begins spamming the backspace. Once the screen is cleared, he returns to chewing his lip and tapping the sides of the phone. He types in something, backspaces after a few letters, and starts the cycle again.

This cycle continues for what seems like forever. It loops until you feel like pulling out your hair and/or leaning over the counter and strangling the potential customer. However, just as you’re about to lose your hold on sanity, he slides the phone across the counter.

_“ever heard of phantom of the paradise? that movie’s just so so awesomely ironic as fuck”_

You stare at the screen for a few minutes and mull the title over a bit. _Phantom of the Paradise_? You’ve heard of _Phantom of the Opera_ —who hasn’t?—but, you’ve never heard of whatever the hell it is that he’s going on about...

Seeing as you have no clue as to what it is he’s talking about, you turn to the computer and enter the title into the search bar. You press the enter key and, as soon as the screen finishes loading, you’re met with [the cover of an outrageously horrible-looking film](http://superradnow.files.wordpress.com/2012/07/phantom_of_the_paradise.jpg) which, according to the description, was made in 1974. Not to your surprise, it comes prepackaged with a list of several genres—none of which are action—as well as a bright red “OUT OF STOCK” label.

In addition to the movie poster, you also notice something in the related items section—a novelisation, by Bjarne Rostaing (whoever the fuck he is). Out of sheer curiosity, you click on it, only to find that it’s no longer in print. Still, you may as well give it a go... After all, it’s the only thing you have to work with.

“Well, there’s a book based on the movie...” You glance towards him as you speak, and notice a small portion of a raised brow appearing from behind the glasses’ freakishly reflective, black façade. “...It’s no longer in print, but you can get a used copy from Amazon or another, similar, site... If you wish to. Naturally, it’s a bit more expensive—what with being used and out of print—but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it...”

_“well goddamn i didnt even know about that thats pretty cool and i just might grab myself a copy of that shit”_

“Well, then, I’m glad I helped and—”

Before you can finish verbalising your response, he shoves the phone across the counter once more.

_“thanks dude youve saved me an assload of shit i owe you one and maybe ill see you around or something”_

“Yeah, I guess we’ll probably run into one another at some—” You close out the search window and look up, only to find that Dave is no longer there.

...Damn.

They always do that. Or, at least, they always seem to do that to you... in your rather small collective experience with them...

Still, you wouldn’t be surprised if you went home after your shift and found one of them waiting on your doorstep. They’re fucking insane when it comes to disappearing and reappearing without you taking notice...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a short aside, I am a personal fanatic of _Phantom of the Paradise_. I own my own copy of it, and it's a wonderfully odd movie. It's not for everyone, but, after showing it to [a certain friend of mine](http://vynive.tumblr.com/), I realised that it's just ironic enough for a certain Strider to likely enjoy the satirical film.


	3. Chapter 3

Seven days ago, you ran into Dave and Rose at work. Since then, you haven’t seen either of them—alone or otherwise. You don’t really feel bad about that, nor do you feel good about the fact. It’s just a normal thing, after all. Unless they lived in your apartment complex, you wouldn’t see them every day—and, as a side note, even if they did live in your complex, you wouldn’t see them every day.

Aside from that, they _are_ new to town. They probably still have cleaning and setting up to do within their residence. And there’s the whole leak thing (though you have a few doubts about the validity of that particular claim)...

Additionally, you have your own plans and your own semblance of a life. You’ve got things to do, too, after all. Actually, you've managed to do most of it (for once). For instance, you’ve managed to clean your car up a little and finish up an entire summer assignment.

Today, however, you’ve planned for a more laid-back day. No work. No cleaning. No summer assignments. Just relaxation.

To aid in such blissful slacking off, you’ve gathered some snacks and ventured out to your favourite spot. It’s not really the safest nor cleanest of places. Hell, you’re not even sure if it’s legal to be there; but, it’s where you like to hang out, and you’ve never been caught...

 _Prshunk._ You push away some chunks of rock and cement to make room for your water bottle. Once that’s done, you unravel the old sleeping bag you brought with you and rest it against the wall, to create a cushioned seat of sorts.

 _Thud._ You drop your backpack onto a clean area of the grimy floor. Reaching into it, you then manage to find your book. You turn towards your makeshift chair and settle into your normal spot. At the same time, you take a moment to observe the walls, which are covered in faded-out and mostly-chipped-away wallpaper, and hidden beneath layer upon layer of grafitti.

You take a moment to appreciate the gentle wind, which blows through the space where a front door once protected the nearly-empty home. It brushes past the leaves, causing them to rustle against the walls, and provides the perfect amount of cool air to keep you from becoming a sweating mess. Then, having had your fill of the familiar, welcoming scenery, you crack open your book.

For thirty, uninterrupted, beautiful minutes, you read in complete silence. Only the gentle murmurs of windswept foliage and the melodious bickerings amongst the nearby wildlife accompany your thoughts. For the first time in longer than you care to admit, you actually let yourself relax. You let all of your usual verbal and intellectual guards drop, and succumb to the too-uncommon pleasure of indulging yourself into a state of pure, unsullied pleasure.

Then at the end of this wonderful half hour of relaxation, you hear something. No... Rather, you hear _someone_.

You hear some _one_ scraping an abject across the floor above you. You notice the quiet plodding of debris being kicked about and the discrete, percussionary thuds of footsteps. You hear a faint, uncertain voice, as it repeats the same words over and over. You attempt to listen to it; but, most of it’s too soft to truly understand. What you can pick up on is comprehensible, but slightly slurred, at some points; yet, at other points, the things you catch onto are nearly unintelligible.

Naturally, this occurrence serves to pique your curiosity. It prompts you to bookmark your page, set aside the novel, and wander over, to the nearby staircase. As you near this architectural feature of the house, however, you pick up on something else—the sound of muffled sobbing.

Your stomach churns a bit and, with an emotional aspect now appearing, you creep up the stairs. (From experience, you know that certain steps have a tendency to creak when you step on them—specifically: the first, fifth, and second to the last—so, naturally, you skip over these steps.) Upon reaching the door at the top of the stairs, you knock nervously.

“Hello?” you call out. “Is someone in there?”

No answer.

“Hello?” you call louder.

Still nothing.

“Anyone!?”

Not even a whimper comes as a response.

You slam your foot against the door in frustration and, for a final time, you speak up. “If you don’t answer, I’m going to pound this shitty door to a pile of splintered wood and shove the remaining fragments into your goddamn eyes! Answer me!”

 _Thunk_. Something falls to the floor.

You hear footsteps approaching the door. Through a thin crack in the wood, you can see the shifting silhouette of a person too short to be an adult, but not short enough to qualify as a child.

“I... Whoever is out there, please... Just leave...”  The voice from behind the decrepit wooden barrier cracks with practically every syllable. The words blend together, and are marked by a prominent, nervous slur.

“Please... I...” The voice hesitates for a moment before releasing an audible sigh. Then, to you your surprise, the brass door knob turns. An annoying squeal rips through the air as the latch slides free of its catch (which, judging from the sound, has probably been jammed firmly into its securing notch for at least a decade) and, as your eyes adjust to the sudden introduction of light, which streams into the room through a large gap in the wall, a familiar face comes into view.

You become aware of a pair of reddish-brown eyes; of a shocked, yet disapproving pale face; and of a mop of blond hair, which is outlined against the rays of sunlight.

“Dave?” you mutter in inadvertent shock.

“You’re...” he stops himself after a single word and reaches a shaking hand into the pocket of his tattered red sweatshirt. He pulls forth his phone, types out a message, and hands it to you. As you take the device from him, you notice his eyes lowering, pointing towards the floor rather than at you.

_“youre not supposed to be here”_

You stare at the message for a few minutes, mulling its meaning over in your mind.

He doesn’t want you here... Hell, he probably doesn’t want anyone here. He obviously wasn’t prepared to meet anyone, judging from the looks of his torn clothing and worn-out sneakers. And, from what you’ve seen of him, he doesn’t seem like the type of guy who’ll openly express himself. So, that means that this display of feelings wasn’t meant to be a public spectacle.

Obviously, he came here for the same reason you did. He wanted to be alone; but, he picked the wrong spot at the wrong time. Still, why did he specifically mention that you weren’t supposed to be here? Why not say that no one was supposed to be here?

No... That’s not relevant right now. Right now, you need to focus on the fact that you’ve obviously run into someone in a good deal of emotional distress...

“I... Well... I’m sorry,” you respond, after a bit of thought. “But, if you don’t mind me asking... What the—?  Why are you out here?” You force yourself to refrain from your usual heavy-handed approach to conversation. (Now isn’t the time for that; you should know that better than anyone...)

_“speech therapy now leave me alone”_

Once again, you stare at the screen for a few moments. You’re a bit taken aback by his sudden, frank response, though you’re smart enough to hand the phone over and back up. What you’re not smart enough to do, though, is give up, because you continue talking. “Look, I know you probably feel like I’m intruding but—”

“I said _leave_ ,” he snarls as he shoves you through the doorway and out into the hallway, before promptly slamming the door shut in your face.

You find yourself frozen in shock for at least a minute after this sudden outburst. Sure, he dressed a bit like a douchebag; but, after interacting with him, he seemed like a decent guy. He didn’t seem like another of those idiots who’d fly off the handle like that...

Still, it’s worth considering the circumstances. You did interrupt him during a moment of emotional distress (which, looking back now, was a terrible idea)... And you were an intruder barging in on him during a deeply personal juncture...

You mull these thoughts over as you retreat to where you’d set yourself up downstairs. With the utmost speed, you pack your things back into your bag. Before you leave, however, you rummage through your pack and pull out an old notebook and a pencil. You scribble a quick apology and leave it out on the decaying kitchen counter, hoping that he’ll find it without you there to distinguish the grey paper from the surrounding layers of dust and grime.

You anchor the note in place by placing something noticeable on top of it—namely, an old, red bottle you find nearby. Then, after checking your possession one last time, you depart. Not wanting to be seen by an obviously angry Dave, you exit through the front door. You keep your head down and your movements abrupt, but deliberate.

Removing any possibility of Dave seeing you as you depart is your main goal. He’s clearly in a bit of distress at the moment, and you’d rather not be the cause of him flying completely off the handle. He’s a fairly nice guy, after all (from what you know) and he seems like an interesting person. Hell, to be honest, you wouldn’t mind being friends with him; but, exacerbating his annoyance at this critical point would surely nullify any future attempts at befriending him...

You’re also keeping to the shadows because you, personally, feel like a load of shit. You know what you did wasn’t exactly the right thing to do and, even though you often come off as an aggressive, elitist asshole, you truly do care about people. You don’t like making people upset. It’s just something you do without meaning to...

Such thoughts continue to ravage your mind until you reach the road, at which point you deem it safe to cease your sneaking about. From there, you merely walk back home as if nothing had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh we've got some actual plot developing up in here. someone get a fire hose, 'cause i have no idea what i'm doing and this plot is on fire so i'll probably end up inadvertently catching my computer on fire.


	4. Chapter 4

Following the incident, which you are no longer going to speak about (the one not involving Sollux, that is), you start frequenting the bookstore enough for it to border obsession. You lurk around the romance and fantasy section, feigning disinterested perusing of the shelves as you keep a watchful eye out for either of the siblings.

You’ve been contumaciously stalking the store in this manner for four days, and today is your fifth. You’re nearing both the five hour checkpoint of today’s stakeout as well as your wits’ end. The feelings of guilt and frustration are beginning to combine into an emotional monster, the likes of which you’ve never before dealt with.

“Come on... Come on...” you chant quietly to yourself, hoping desperately that one of the two will wander into the store. “ _Please_...”

“Thank you for your purchase, ma’am. I sincerely hope that you enjoy that literary gem!” The sound of the cashier’s voice pulls your observations away from the romance section and towards the front door. As you do so, you see her. You catch a glimpse of a familiar pink headband. Then, before you can fully process everything, it disappears through the door and around the corner.

“Fuck!” you mutter as you stumble from your seat at the bookstore's Starbucks area and dash after her.

“Sorry... Excuse me... Didn’t mean to do that...” you grumble insincere apologies under your breath as you shove aside everyone and anyone in your way.

_You’ve spent five days looking for one of them, and you’ve finally caught one. You’re not about to let all this work go to waste._

The door groans as the force of your exit causes it to momentarily pull against its built-in stopping mechanism, though you ignore the sound. You ignore everything that’s not her.

“Rose!” you call out to her and, to your relief, she stops and turns towards you. By this point, she’s halfway across the back parking lot, but you don’t really care. What matters now is that you’ve finally managed to get a hold of one of them.

“Karkat?” A hint of mild shock is subtly present in her voice as she responds to your sudden appearance. “I... When did you manage to enter the picture?”

“I don’t know,” you pant as you come to a stop in front of her. “Just now, I guess; but, like I said, I honestly don’t have a fucking clue...”

“Hm,” Rose replies with a somewhat dismissive nod. “So... What exactly brings you here? Clearly, you’re eager to say something to me or post an inquiry. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have flagged me down in this odd manner.”

“Well... I...” You pause and glance at the ground.

What are you supposed to say? After all, you’re pretty sure that Dave would have informed her of the incident...

What _is_ there to say? ‘Hey there, my name is Karkat Vantas and I kind of pissed off your brother,’ isn’t exactly a positive way to open a conversation; but, that’s all you can think of...

“Let me see if I can assay this particularly awkward situation.” Her voice interrupts your thoughts. “You’re clearly unpoised for this situation, as you’ve yet to so much as recognise that I have greeted you. Rather, you completely digressed from normal conversation and now appear to be in the process of contemplating the manner in which you’re going to pose your statement or query.” She pauses for a moment and appears to take some enjoyment in observing the look of bewilderment upon you face.

“Clearly, you’ve come to me in order to discuss a matter pertaining to something you’ve likely done wrong—an argument gone terribly wrong, for instance, would qualify as a cause at the moment. However, you haven’t wronged me in any way, nor have you offended my mother. Therefore, there’s only one possibility left, and this particular possibility happens to fulfill all the requirements laid out before us...”

“Just fucking say it already,” you grumble.

“Very well, then. I presume you’ve come to ask about Dave?” As she poses this question, a faint hint of a confident smirk threatens to spread across her face.

“Well, you’ve just explained the goddamn thing like the sort of high-horse detectives of Arthur Conan Doyle’s mystery fans’ wet dreams, so I fucking suppose so,” you reply irritably.

“There’s no need to get aggressive; I merely wish to confirm my suspicions prior to answering your question,” Rose mutters. “Now, to answer your question, Dave happens to be doing fairly well. However, he’s not exactly fond of the way you barged in on him in that crappy, abandoned abode down the street from our home. In fact, neither am I; but, seeing as this is about Dave, I shall withhold my commentary...”

“You live down the road from that place?”

Rose retorts with a discrete snicker of laughter. “Yes. That’s why he found out about it. Why do you ask?”

“Because I live just north of it,” you shrug. “It’s not actually something that matters. I’m just a curious fuck-up. That’s it Heh... Funny enough, that’s exactly why all this shit is hitting the fan, isn’t it? Because I’m too damn curious for my own good...”

“Curiosity isn’t necessarily a negative trait, Karkat,” Rose rebuts calmly. “In fact, Dave happens to be an inherently inquisitive person, as well. How else would he have found that decrepit accident-waiting-to-happen?”

“True...” You sigh and shove your hands into your pockets, haphazardly scuffing your shoes against the asphalt as you do so. Your gaze raises upwards, towards Rose’s face, until it rests briefly upon her thin, seemingly imperturbable grin. “So... Is he...?”

“To put it frankly and informally, he’s pretty damned pissed off at you right now. However, I’m confident that a civilised, one-on-one talk with him will assuage these hostile feelings...” At this point, she reaches into her bag of newly-purchased books and pulls forth a recognisably battered iPhone. “He normally doesn’t answer to texts from foreign numbers, so I would stick with using this,” she calmly responds as she hands over the worn-out phone.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some reading to do.” Immediately after saying this, she seems to wink at you, though the action is far too fast to determine if it truly happened or if you merely imagined it.

“Don’t ask him an abundance of questions until he’s calmed down. That’s just a bit of advice, given from personal experience,” she calls back to you as she gathers her things and wanders off.

Enlightened a bit by this encounter, you haphazardly put the phone into your pocket and wander back home...

 

* * *

 

About halfway through the process of reading a chapter of one of your many romance novels, you happen to roll over. Something in your pocket presses against your leg, prompting you to pull from it something you’d managed to forget about until now—a worn-out iPhone.

For a moment or two, you ponder its meaning. You haphazardly unlock the device and glance at the mostly-empty app screen. Only two things occupy this particular space—new text message and notes.

Where did you...?

Wait. You mentally kick yourself for forgetting about having this as you switch from the home page to the messaging screen and type a new message.

_“DAVE? ARE YOU THERE?”_

Barely two seconds pass before a new message appears on the screen.

_“who the hellre you and why do you have my phone?”_

_“IT’S KARKAT VANTAS.”_

_“sweet baby jesus no i dont want to talk to you”_

You begin to type a response to this message, only to receive a follow-up response before you reach the halfway point of your reply.

_“oh and lemme guess you got that piece of shit from rose didnt you? i know you did”_

_“WELL... I... YEAH, I GOT IT FROM ROSE, BUT I DIDN’T ASK FOR IT.”_

_“of course you didnt shes been carrying it around so she can hand it over to you when she sees you and i guess her stupid as fuck plan actually worked”_

His response manages to break the calm composure you’d built up with your reading. You find yourself reverting back to your usual social habits, though you don’t do much about it. Honestly, by now, you think that a good dose of obscene, heavy-handed commentary might just be the thing he needs.

_“OKAY, LOOK, YOU RAGING SACK OF SHIT, I’M ONLY TRYING TO APOLOGIZE FOR BEING AN IDIOT. AND IF YOU HAD SOME SORT OF VIDEO CHAT SYSTEM THIS WOULD BE SO MUCH EASIER TO DO.”_

After sending this message, you wait for about seven minutes. When no reply comes, you send another.

_“DAVE?”_

_“ugh fine ill talk but youre not getting any second chances if you go and fuck this up now gimme your email and ill get online”_

At this point, you do as he requested. You send him your email address and wander over to the crappy old desktop (the former family computer) which your father let you take into your room. Almost immediately after the computer manages to show the desktop, a text box informing you of an incoming video chat request pops up. You accept the incoming request without reading it. You never give out your username, anyhow, and few people ever chat with you.

 _Fzzt_. The desktop CPU buzzes for a moment before Dave’s window pops up. In his window, you can (obviously) see him, as well as the room which surrounds him. From the little you can make out, it seems to be jam-packed with technology of nearly every variety. The bed is adorned with simple cushions, which complement the array of phallic puppets stacked neatly atop the sheets. Photographs and newspaper clipping cover the wall, though the camera’s image quality is too low to discern much of anything from them. All in all, it’s a standard teenager’s room, if you disregard the row of odd jars on the shelf near his bed...

**DAVE: so are you just going to stare at the screen like an idiot or are you going to say something**

The message pops up onto the screen with a loud ding, sending you scrambling for your computer’s volume control. Once you’ve handled that problem, you return your attentions to Dave and, after another brief moment of observation, realise that his usual sunglasses aren’t on.

**KARKAT: SO ARE YOU NOT WEARING THOSE IDIOTIC AND LIKELY USELESS SUNGLASSES ANY MORE?**

**DAVE: if you only logged on to ask me stupid questions like this im leaving**

**KARKAT: NO. WAIT. THAT WAS JUST A COMMENT. LOOK, JUST GIVE ME TEN MINUTES, OKAY? TEN MINUTES OF ACTUAL, LEGITIMATE CONVERSATION, AND MAYBE WE CAN WORK THIS SHIT OUT LIKE MATURE ADULTS. TEN MINUTES IS ALL. IF IT DOESN’T WORK, I SWEAR TO WHATEVER DEITY YOU BELIEVE OR DISBELIEVE IN THAT I WILL LEAVE YOU ALONE FOREVER.**

**DAVE: forever huh?**   
**DAVE: thats a pretty tempting possibility actually**   
**DAVE: okay youve got a deal start talking**

 **KARKAT: OKAY... WELL... I’M SORRY FOR NOT MINDING MY OWN GODDAMN BUSINESS LIKE I SHOULD HAVE.**   
**KARKAT: I ADMIT TO BEING THE WORLDS BIGGEST ASSHOLE AND HEREBY AFFIRM THAT MY TENDENCY TO BE AN ASSHOLE IS SO HORRIBLE THAT IT HAS SOMEHOW FORMED A PARADOXICAL WORMHOLE OF SOCIAL SECLUSION, WHICH SUCKS EVERYONE I ACTUALLY WANT TO BEFRIEND INTO A PIT OF ENDLESS HATRED FOR ME.**   
**KARKAT: DOES THAT WORK?**

You stare at the screen for a few minutes, watching his reaction. As you do so, you notice a smirk trying to find its way onto his face. The corners of his mouth twitch, as if they’re about to form this smirk; but, before they can do much of anything, he suppresses them.

 **DAVE: that was one hell of a way to say that youre an asshole**   
**DAVE: points for creativity**   
**DAVE: i give it 8.2 out of 10**   
**DAVE: points deducted for sloppy presentation and caps lock**

**KARKAT: I DON’T WANT A GODDAMN RATING. I JUST WANT TO KNOW IF YOU ACCEPT MY APOLOGY OR NOT.**

Once again, you turn your attentions towards the pixellated image. You notice him swivelling his rolling desk chair back and forth a bit, while his fingers tap thoughtfully against the armrests. He puts up this ruse of false contemplation for at least a minute prior to finally responding.

 **DAVE: i guess so**   
**DAVE: you made an effort to contact me and apologize so thats more than what most people do**   
**DAVE: now if you dont mind its almost midnight and i want to go to sleep**   
**DAVE: night**

Before you can respond, his window cuts to black. A message informing you of his disconnection from the chat pops up. You stare at it for a few minutes; then, you wander over to your own bed and climb beneath its thick, grey covers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on an unrelated note i saw the star trek movie today and it was awesome so go see it while it's still out if you haven't already. double buns up for zachary quinto... i mean thumbs up. sorry. freudian slaps... er... slips...


	5. Chapter 5

_Passatto sotto._

You drop as low to the ground as your flexibility and the restrictions of your thick protective equipment allow.

Dave’s haphazard lunge misses you by a mile, flying over your head like a misfired arrow.

With your free hand, you catch yourself; with the other hand, which currently happens to be gripping a blunted practical rapier, you perform a standard forward thrust.

_Battre de main._

Dave counters with a surprising move.

His hand wraps around your sword. He establishes a firm hold on the weapon, prior to carelessly wandering towards you. As he moves closer, his grip merely adjusts. With each step, you can hear the subtle sound of blunted steel scraping against his protective leather gloves, as they slide down the steel blade. Before you can even process what’s going on, he lets go. His hand then wraps around the hilt of your sword as he gives you a firm, but relatively gentle kick in the gut. Then, he releases his grip on your sword and backs away.

“I’m not an expert on the topic of fencing, and I know nothing of this particular style of the sport, but I’m fairly certain that that move was illegal on several counts...” Rose mutters.

“Ugh...” You take a moment to regain your breath prior to staggering to your feet and speaking up. “What was that assfuckery!?” you thunder as you look at the wide smirk spread across Dave’s face.

He, in turn, sets his own sword aside long enough to respond to you. His hands move rapidly, forming what you recognise to be ASL, though you don’t understand a bit of it.

“He said that you and him are even,” Rose translates once Dave has finished. “Now, if both of you could take a five minute break...”

At this point, both you and Dave remove your protective helmets and set down your attenuated weapons.

“That would be fucking fantastic, seeing as I feel like regurgitating my entire goddamn breakfast, thanks in part to your asshole of a brother,” you half-jokingly respond.

Seeing as Rose is acting as the real-time interpreter, Dave picks up on your comment. Not surprisingly, he responds with a cocky half-smile and a flash of an obscene gesture. While you catch your breath, he downs about a quarter of his water in a few, huge gulps.

“So, Karkat...”

You look at Rose, responding to her statement with a raised brow and a quiet “Hm?” as you begin to drink a bit of your own water.

“Do you happen to know any of the other bookstore employees?”

“That depends,” you reply honestly, “Which asshole’re you talking about?”

Rose snickers a bit at your commentary, though she shows no other signs of emotion. “Female... Our age, probably... She spoke with a sort of beguiling elegance and wore an odd shade of jade lipstick...”

“Kanaya!” you interject. “You’re talking about Kanaya Maryam. She’s a bit of a bitch at times, but she’s immensely helpful and incredibly intelligent. We’ve been friends for a while... Why do you ask?”

Rose shrugs and begins to respond, only to notice Dave adding his own, silent commentary. She ignores these comments, however, and continues addressing you. “I was just wondering. Just like you said, she was incredibly helpful. ...I was just inquiring as to if you knew her or not...”

“Hm... So, what was Dave saying?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Rose counters rapidly. “He’s being an asinine idiot, as per usual, and I would much rather translate an entire Latin underwear advertisement than interpret his vacuous commentary.”

Though her tone is as unwavering as it usually is, you take the aggressive response as a signal to back down. So, rather than pursuing the subject further, you respond with a simple nod. “Makes sense to me...” you murmur. “Is that butt-sniffing idiot ready for another round?”

Rose shrugs, interprets your message, and comes back with his answer. “He’s more than ready to kick your ass. At least, that’s what he crudely stated...”

“Perfect,” you mutter as you pick up your sword and don your helmet once more.

You then stand on your side of the makeshift platform—a simple chalk outline of a less-than-official fighting area—and face your opponent. Both you and him perform the customary salute and, before you can even attempt to attack, he lunges.

_Punta sopramano._

He takes a quick step forwards before making his killing blow. His blade presses against the leather plastron, which protects your torso from most injury, and yields to the force behind the lunge. It bends enough to indicate that the stab would have easily killed its target in a serious duel.

“Fuck... How the hell did you do that!? I blinked and you just popped the fuck out of nowhere and stabbed me!” you mutter as you return your starting position.

_Arrebatar._

You attempt to strike first, throwing your entire arm into a strong, Medieval-longsword-type cut with your blade’s flat, false edge.

_Prise de fer._

He blocks your attack with ease and uses the momentum against you. With little effort, he overpowers your cutting force and pushes against it.

_Botta secreta._

From here, he splits away from every conventional fencing rule you’ve ever learned. He veers into the land of undoubtedly illegal moves; yet, seeing as you agreed to a no-rules, all-within-reason-goes match, there’s not much you can do about it.

He slides his sword from its spot, where it’s supporting your blade, and avoids the weapon’s predictable arch, which forms a downward-sweeping cut into the concrete foundation of the abandoned house. As the blade falls, he attacks. He lunges and, once again, the blade yields.

“ _Goddammit_ ,” you murmur under your breath as he withdraws his sword and removes his mask. He sheaths his sword and, then, he makes another comment.

He holds his left hand in a fist and brushes the palm of his outstretched right hand over the top of the fist a few times. As he does this, he raises his brows in a manner indicative of a question.

“I... What?”

“‘ _Had enough?_ ’ He’s basically taunting you, though my intuition indicates that he’s not exactly up for another fight at this point in time.”

“Fuck!” You turn around to find Rose standing behind you. Her arms are folded, and a thin grin is the only evident testament to the fact that she has also taken her fair share of pleasure in watching your multiple defeats. “How the fuck do you two _do_ that!?”

“You mean to ask how we seem to appear and disappear? We don’t. _You’re_ just not a particularly observant person,” she shrugs.

Dave rolls his eyes and adds his own commentary to the mix. His movements are far too fast for you to keep up with, though, so you can’t even try and guess what he’s saying at this point.

“When I ran into a sparring partner, I thought I’d actually get someone that knew how to dodge without tripping over their own two feet.”

You turn towards Rose, seeing as she’s the one speaking, only for her to point towards Dave.

“I... What?”

“ _He’s_ the one conversing with you at this point; I’m not. I’m merely the interpreter between the two of you. Looking at him won’t turn you to stone, you know,” Rose responds bluntly.

“I... Yeah, that makes sense...” is your flustered response.

Dave, in turn, comes back with a snort of laughter and a cocky smirk.

“So does sparring, but you don’t seem to understand that, either.”

“You’re a bag of shit, you know that? And not just any shit. You’re that disgusting, putrid-smelling waste, which happens to be infested with maggots, all of whom are gorged to the point of explosion by your almost intolerable amounts of self-confident conceit!” you reply with a good-natured, though confrontational, grin.

At this point, you notice Rose rolling her eyes. Despite this fact, you also notice that she continues to interpret the conversation (albeit with a bit more reluctance than before).

“Well, damn, that’s the most colourful insult I’ve ever heard. You could probably make an entire planet of ironic rainbows and kaleidoscopic unicorn shit with those insults, you know.”

“I refuse to involve myself in any of your ridiculous bullshit. Therefore, you shouldn’t come crawling to my doorstep with that pathetic look on your goddamn horrible face as you beg for me assist you in creating this ridiculously joyous land of vomit-inducing rainbow glitter. Got that?”

“Of course, _Princess Vantas._ I’ll  be sure to ask someone else for their help.”

“Did you just call me—”

“Both of you are complete and utter imbeciles,” Rose suddenly interjects. “Now, sorry to burst this sanguine bubble of family-friendly camaraderie, but I have a violin lesson to attend. And, Dave, you’re scheduled for a doctor’s visit during my lesson. So, sorry for this unceremonious interruption; but, as I am always the bearer of bad news, we really should be departing. Karkat, it’s been nice seeing you again.”

On a whim, you speak up.

“Er... You want your phone back?” you mutter as you pull the decaying device from your pocket.

“That would be marvellous,” Rose mutters as she shoves Dave towards the door. On her way out, she manages to grab the phone. Then, without any further delay, she pushes Dave over the threshold. She steps outside and slams the door shut on her way out.

_(Okay, so, considering the circumstances, you could have said something more meaningful. Oh well. What’s done is done, right?)_


	6. Chapter 6

It’s been about a day since you sparred (and lost to) Dave Strider and, seeing as your stomach is still a bit sore from his well-placed kick, you’re not in the mood for more fighting. Therefore, you decided to invite them to your apartment.

“Karkat?” Rose’s voice can be heard from behind your door, marking the beginning of what may or may not be an agonisingly long visitation. Meanwhile, someone (more than likely Dave) is busy spamming your doorbell.

You check the clock for reference. It’s noon—no earlier, no later. They’re perfectly on time.

_Dingdingdingdingding... Ding... Dingding..._

“SWEET MOTHER OF GOD, WOULD YOU QUIT IT WITH THE GODDAMN DOORBELL!?” you yell as you stumble over a misplaced pair of shoes on your way to the door. “The sound is annoying enough on its own. I don’t need some meatheaded fucker repeatedly beating it to action,” you grumble.

“Dave’s not stopping until you open the door, you know.” A faint hint of laughter is audible in Rose’s voice as she calls to you.

“Fine! Fucking fine! Just... Hold on a minute!” you retort as you kick a stray reference book out of the way. You approach the door and, after unlocking it, pry it open to reveal the pair of siblings. As soon as you open the door, Dave stops ringing the bell. As Rose enters, however, a sly grin spreads across her face and she discretely punches the button one last time.

_Ding._

“Very funny,” you grumble as she steps over the threshold.

“Thank you,” Rose replies with a coltish simper. “I’m flattered that you find my occasional foolishness amusing.”

“I really don’t,” you mutter.

“Yes, I understand sarcasm...” she replies with a quiet chuckle. “By the way, it might be beneficial for you to turn around now...”

Prompted to action by Rose’s comment, you spin about just in time to see Dave opening your fridge and glancing about. He sighs loudly, closes the door, and turns around to report his observations.

“Something smells like dead bodies in there. You might want to get that checked.” Rose speaks for him.

“I... What the hell!?” you sputter.

Rose stops interpreting in order to, as per usual, offer you some advice. “Expect more of this type of thing. Dave can be rather—no, extremely—blunt. I think it’s a part of deaf culture, though I may be wrong about that. Try not to take offense, and remember that he could always say worse.”

“Worse?” you mutter. “Like what?”

“He once asked his school bus driver if they were still following their diet after observing that they had put on a good deal of weight,” Rose mumbles in your ear.

“Oh sweet mother of...” You pause, roll your eyes, and quietly suspire. “Thanks for the info. I’ll try and remember that next time I’m about to bash his fucking face in.”

Rose nods understandingly, though her words contrast the action. “Well, if you so much as aggressively jab a finger at him, I _will_ beat you up. Keep that in the back of your mind, as well, when you’re thinking of doing anything to my brother.” As if to rebuff the startling impact of this quaint threat, she punctuates the statement with a thin smile.

“I—” You swallow nervously prior to showing your understanding with a simple inclination of your head. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

“Good.”

“ _Harumph_ ,” Dave clears his throat in an almost comically obstreperous manner, though you know that he does so only to remind you that he’s still a presence in the room. He waits and, once he’s sure that you and Rose have taken notice of him, he speaks up (you suppose you could say it that way).

His hands move at a head-spinning speed, firing off words and phrases like a machine gun belches forth bullets. The only pause in these motions comes when he removes his sunglasses and clips them to his shirt’s neckband, prior to returning to his previous breakneck signing.

Rose, meanwhile, translates at an equally expeditious rate. “Good to see that you both remembered that I’m still in the room,” (It is at this point that the aforementioned pause occurs, though, as stated, the conversation rapidly picks itself up once he’s done.) “Now, if you don’t mind me asking, I’d like to know what we’re going to do for nine hours or more.”

(Only now do you notice that Rose’s voice changes slightly when she’s speaking for Dave. She seems to adopt a faint Texan accent. Her speech also becomes more animated.)

“I don’t know,” you reply with a shrug. “I guess it depends on what you and Rose feel like doing.”

Dave returns with a nod. He signs something, though Rose doesn’t translate this particular statement; she merely responds to it.

“What do I want to do?” As she speaks, she continues to sign. All in all, it looks like a thoroughly frustrating and massively complicated task; but, from the relatively small amount of information you know about Rose, it’s likely instinct at this point. “Well, I’m mostly here as Dave’s interpreter. Although, I do recall that you invited both of us... I’d be perfectly content with doing whatever Dave wants to do.”

Before you can get a response in, Dave throws in his own answer. “I’d be fine doing whatever. If I get bored, you’ll know.” Rose shifts to interpreting without missing a beat.

You nod and wait for a moment, making sure that no one else has anything to add prior to replying. “To be honest, there’s not much to do in this shitty place. We can talk or watch television, I guess...”

“Talking sounds good to me,” Dave responds. “And do you happen to have paper?”

“We have printing paper, if that’s what you mean,” you mutter as you pull some from a nearby drawer.

“Perfect.” Dave smirks and grabs the paper from you prior to sitting down at your kitchen bar. Pulling a pen from his pocket, he busies himself with scribbling haphazard sketches of random things as you and Rose move two barstools to the other side of the countertop and sit down.

Once he’s certain that you’re both settled, he sets the pen aside and raises a brow, as if to ask a question. ‘What do you want to talk about?’ he seems to say.

“He’s waiting for you to go first,” Rose mutters after a few minutes of painfully awkward silence.

“I understand that much,” you hiss back. “What am I supposed to say?”

“ _Anything_ ,” she retorts, her voice a quiet hiss. She folds her arms in a seemingly disapproving manner before continuing. “I assume you have questions you wish to pose to him. _Ask them_.”

“But... I... I barely know him!” you come back with an honest sigh.

“Which is precisely why you should attempt to better acquaint yourself with him. Honestly, Karkat, you seem like a reasonably intelligent person. Use your common sense and _stop acting like such an ignorant fool_ ,” she bluntly snaps.

(Damn. She doesn’t put up with any beating around the bush, does she?)

You nod and, with a quiet sigh, run your fingers through your hair. For a moment, you mull over your question. You play with the words, trying to figure out exactly how you should ask the question. Eventually, you speak. “So... I’m going to start off by saying that you don’t need to answer this, if you don’t want to. I’m just a really curious sack of self-deprecating bullshit. But... Have you always been—?”

“Deafer than a worn-out doornail?” Dave’s response cuts into yours, and the dismissive grin on his face easily breaks through your self-created veil of nervous confusion. “If we’re going by what I remember, then yes. Overall, no. I had fairly decent hearing until I was five. Some genetic fuck-up kicked in around then and it all went to shit pretty quick. Question answered?”

“Yeah...” you respond quietly, diverting your gaze from his.

“Heh,” he surprises you with a quiet snicker. “You look like you just ran over a puppy, dude. Lighten up a little. It’s not like you’re interrogating me for homicide. Enough people act like that already. I don’t need another pity party host around here; fuck knows we have enough of those assholes.”

You raise your gaze back towards him and notice his confident smirk. “Sorry. I’m just not used to this yet...”

“Understand that completely. Rose’s voice isn’t anything like what my voice probably sounds like and it’s coming from the side, so it’s probably a cactus up the ass of your senses. Right?” he counters with another laugh.

“Yeah,” you can’t help but chuckle at his commentary. “You could say it like that, you crude little shit.”

“So, my turn for questions.” The smirk on his face quickly disappears, and he adopts a sterner, more critical facial expression. “Why the hell’re you doing this?”

“Doing what?” you respond confusedly.

“Hanging out with me,” Dave retorts bluntly. “Do you just not have anything better to do? Because, if that’s the case, you might want to examine your social life.”

“Well,” you mutter, “Why wouldn’t I?” As you speak, you inadvertently rub the back of your neck. “It’s not like you’re infected with some sort of contagious, apocalyptic virus... And I guess I can say that you’re a fairly decent person.”

Dave rolls his eyes at your comment and makes his reply. “Do you need me to spell the whole damned thing out for you? Or maybe I need to go and get some of those fancy talking books so you can understand this shit.” He pauses for a moment and lets forth a noisy sigh. “Look, I’ll put it this way... You’re making a ridiculous effort to befriend me, and you could be doing five hundred other things right now besides trying and failing to look like you _aren’t_ the damndest, most uncomfortable human being on the face of the western hemisphere..” At the end of this statement, he folds his arms across his chest and raises his brows once more.

“I—” you stop yourself for a moment and consider your response. You try and think of something to say—something sure-fire—but, you can’t. Thus, you wing it. “Honestly, the main reason was that I needed a sparring partner, and that you’re the only person I know of who’s capable of being one...” As you say this, you can practically feel Rose’s glare boring into the side of your face. “But I’ve quickly learned that you’re an interesting and entertaining person as a whole—which is a lot more than most of the sorry sacks of fermenting, wasted potential can say, as they carry on with their idiotic everyday lives.”

“Mhm.” Dave vocalises his skepticism, and emphasises it with a critical sneer.

However, you ignore his commentary and continue with your response. “Why’re you asking me that question, anyhow? Are you _trying_ to annoy me by forcing me to spew these glorifying statements at your feet?”

“No... I was just wondering, is all. Most people don’t take the time to do much more than give me one of this shitty little ‘oh you poor thing’ looks before they completely ignore my existence,” Dave replies with a shrug. “So, seeing as that was a fucking huge question, I’ll let you go again. Question?”

Though you’re a bit shocked by his sudden change in mood and topic, you respond as if you’re used to such odd shifts. “Is there any particular reason for wearing only one hearing aid? And the hell why is it stoplight red?”

“Nice question. Ten points to Asshatdor,” he counters with a thin smile. “It doesn’t do much, to be completely honest. All it’s good for is letting me know when people are screaming at me or if the fire alarm is going off... Its colour comes from the fact that it’s mostly just something to notify people of the fact that screaming louder isn’t going to help me understand them, although a huge majority seem hell bent on forcing that principle to work. Question answered?”

You nod and file this information away, in the back of your mind, before continuing. “So, that means it’s your turn to ask some undoubtedly idiotic question. I may as well listen to whatever mind-blowingly stupid thing it is you want to say... Go for it.”

“Hmph...” After acknowledging your statement, Dave seems to ponder his own. As he thinks, you can’t help but notice a few odd quirks popping up. Finger tapping. Lip chewing. Foot tapping. Every involuntary action provides you with a little more information about him.

Though you’ve already recognised his lip chewing habit, you are only now witnessing his foot and finger tapping. You can easily dismiss his randomly timed rappings against the countertop as a mindless reaction. His foot-tapping, however, is more interesting. It has a timed rhythm, unlike his fingers, which you quickly identify as a musical beat—more specifically, a waltz.

“Okay, then...” Rose interprets and you shove your observations to the back of your mind, marking them for later consideration. “Do you play a musical instrument?”

You shake your head. “I used to play guitar, but I stopped. It was fucking annoying to find an hour every day for rehearsal, to be honest.”

“Weird. I used to play it, too. Hopefully, you’re well aware of the reason that I stopped playing,” Dave replies with a cocky grin.

“You did?”

“Yeah. I also used to fuck around with my bro—” His signing and Rose’s interpreting both come to an abrupt halt. His hands freeze in the middle of some gesture, and Rose reacts by letting forth a sigh prior to continuing where he’d left off.

“He rather obnoxiously experimented with our brother’s turntables. Incidentally, he’d get the ‘itch’ to play only during the night, when we were all busy trying to sleep,” she grumbles.

You take note of this pause and, as with everything else, keep it in the back of your mind. “I hate to admit it, but that’s actually interesting. Now, is there anything you or Rose feel like doing besides talking like nostalgic retirees?”

“If you have any video games, that would be cool,” Dave responds with a smirk, having seemingly overcome his momentary spell.

“You do realise that you’re erroneously assuming that you’re good at playing video games, correct?” Rose interrupts.

“Hmph.” Dave rolls his eyes and flips Rose the bird prior to continuing. “I’m actually a fantastic gamer. I only fake sucking for irony.”

After interpreting this statement, a thin grin flashes across Rose’s face.

“Of course you do, Dave,” she chuckles.

With this issue cleared up, you proceed to lead the pair to the living room. You open the bottom half of the family media cabinet, which happens to contain the communal Wii console, and pull out a stack of games for them to choose from.

Rose declines, stating none of the games are to her taste.

Dave eagerly chooses one of the most recent edition of Super Smash Brothers and, after the game loads, proceeds to do just as poorly as Rose predicted.

You and him manage to continue playing video games for the remaining duration of their visit (Rose entertains herself with translating Dave’s occasional utterances of “ironic suckishness” and throwing out a variety of smalltalk topics.) and, as the pair departs, they give you their respective phone numbers. Rose also mentions the possibility of you and her having some one-on-one time, as well, though the comment is said dismissively enough for you to brush it off as a perfunctory side thought.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is almost entirely an internet chat. there's your warning.

**DAVE: Karkat, are you there?**   
**DAVE: Karkat?**

The messages arrive in rapid succession, and your computer’s loud ringing alerts you to their appearance. It also happens to shock you from your sleep and causes you to roll onto out of your bed and onto the floor.

“Dammit!” you growl as you stumble to your feet and over to the computer. “Fucking dammit...”

Your foot, which is tangled in the bedsheets, prevents you from moving on. You fall onto the floor and writhe about wildly for a few minutes prior to freeing yourself. Once this task is complete, you continue. You stagger―once again―to your feet and finally sit down in front of the computer, only to almost immediately recognise that you’re not being contacted by Dave. Rather, from the manner in which the messages are typed, you infer that you’re speaking to Rose.

**KARKAT: WHAT!? WHAT THE FUCK YOU FUCKING WANT!?**   
**KARKAT: THE SUN HAS YET TO REAR ITS PUTRID FACE OVER THE POLLUTION-STAINED HORIZON OF AN OVERPOPULATED CITY, YOU KNOW. THAT MEANS IT’S EARLY. IT MEANS IT’S TOO EARLY FOR YOU OR YOUR SHITTY BROTHER TO BE CONTACTING ME.**   
**KARKAT: BUT, RATHER THAN CONTINUE TO BERATE YOU WITH MY CONDESCENDING COMMENTARY AND MY FUTILE ATTEMPTS TO BE ANTISOCIAL, I’LL HUMOR YOU. WHAT DO YOU WANT?**

**DAVE: Good morning to you, too, Karkat.**   
**DAVE: I’d activate the webcam; but, it seems to emit some sort of idiotically bright light when turned on, a modification which likely stems from one of Dave’s compulsive remodelling sessions. Seeing as I am obviously using his computer rather than my own, I also wish to avoid rousing him from his rather turbulent rest. Therefore, I hope you are satisfied by a textual conversation without any audio or video interaction.**

**KARKAT: THAT ANSWERED MY QUESTION ABOUT AS WELL AS A FORK PICKS UP WATERY, POORLY PREPARED SOUP.**   
**KARKAT: I REPEAT MY QUESTION: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU HERE FOR?**

**DAVE: Well, to be honest, I wanted to express a few feelings to someone who isn’t my inebriated mother or mostly-aloof twin brother.**   
**DAVE: You see, Dave was raised less by my mother and more by his older brother. While I was not particularly fond of both his and my older sibling, he did a relatively good job with raising his younger brother. Unfortunately, he also happened to raise Dave to believe that emotions are low-brow signs of ‘uncool’ personal conflict.**   
**DAVE: Thus, Dave isn’t exactly the best person to talk to when I wish to reciprocate my personal feelings. I, however, also admit to hiding my emotions to a certain degree, though I do so out of necessity.**

**KARKAT: I’VE NOTICED THAT MUCH.**   
**KARKAT: BUT WHAT NECESSITATES THAT TYPE OF SHIT? IT’S NOT LIKE SHOWING SOME EMOTION WILL FUCKING KILL YOU.**

**DAVE: While that statement is true, I must point out the fact that I am not only responsible for my own communication but also for most of Dave’s.**   
**DAVE: If I were to show an excessive amount of emotion, I would get in the way of practical communication.**   
**DAVE: And, conveniently, this discussion pertaining to feelings leads perfectly into the topic I pestered you to speak about―my own emotions, and yours.**   
**DAVE: So, to begin, I’d like to openly admit to you that the ‘familial death’ I referred to when we first met is that of Dave’s outlandishly idolized older brother. I’m not really sure why Dave is so broken up over it, seeing as his brother landed him in the emergency room on countless occasions; but, he is.**

**KARKAT: EMERGENCY ROOM?**

**DAVE: Yes, the emergency room. Dave and his brother often engaged in unarmored horseplay on the roof of our penthouse. It’s where his love of swordplay originated, and why he won’t allow himself to cease practicing the illogical so-called sport. No offence intended on you.**

**KARKAT: SOME OFFENCE STILL TAKEN.**   
**KARKAT: NOW, IN CASE YOU HAVEN’T NOTICED, THESE APPLICATIONS HAVE A RECORD OF CHATS. SO HE’LL FIND OUT PRETTY QUICKLY THAT YOU’VE BEEN FUCKING AROUND WITH HIS PROFILE**

**DAVE: That’s true, but I’ll be erasing the entirety of this conversation upon the closure of this interaction. Now, if you don’t mind me asking, would you happen to understand Dave’s incomprehensible admiration for a potentially abusive sibling?**

**KARKAT: ...**   
**KARKAT: WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME THIS SHIT? IT’S NOT LIKE I’M DOCTOR PHIL’S SON OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT.**   
**KARKAT: FUCK, I BARELY UNDERSTAND MY OWN EMOTIONS, MUCH LESS THOSE OF OTHERS. I SPEND MOST OF MY TIME READING ROMANCE NOVELS AND CRYING UGLY TEARS OF AN INEVITABLE LIVING-AT-HOME-THIRTY-YEAR-OLD WITH NO LIFE AS I CONTEMPLATE THE PALTRY RELATIONSHIPS OF FICTITIOUS CHARACTERS.**   
**KARKAT: WHAT, THEN, MAKES YOU ASSUME THAT I’D HAVE SO MUCH AS A GRAIN OF UNDERSTANDING WHEN IT COMES TO INTERPRETING THE RELATIONSHIPS AND NUANCES OF YOUR BROTHER???**

After you’ve finished typing this gargantuan response and, in all honestly, slapping a biography of your life in Rose’s face, you let forth an irritated sigh. You flop backwards, falling into your chair in a manner which causes it to rock to and fro on its long-since broken pneumatic support column.

**DAVE: Well aren’t we a robust, verbally talented young man?**   
**DAVE: No, truly, that was a semi-significant complement. Take it as such.**   
**DAVE: I didn’t expect for you to know anything, and was simply asking for some reasonable input from an outside source.**   
**DAVE: Seeing as you do not wish to answer, however, I will merely continue to my next point.**

You sigh and narrowly stop yourself from slamming your head into the computer desk.

**KARKAT: WHAT WOULD THAT BE?**

**DAVE: It’s just a simple question, really. I just wanted to know who you lived with.**

**KARKAT: I LIVE WITH MY DAD, BUT HE’S RARELY HOME SINCE HIS WORKPLACE IS RUN BY DOUCHEBAGS WHO TREAT PEOPLE LIKE MONKEYS TO DO THEIR BIDDING.**   
**KARKAT: IF YOU’RE WONDERING, MY MOM’S DEAD. SHE DIED TEN YEARS AGO.**   
**KARKAT: SHE SPENT MOST OF HER TIME AWAY FROM HOME ANYHOW, SO IT’S NOT LIKE I NOTICED IT THAT MUCH.**   
**KARKAT: SHE CLAIMED ALL THAT SHIT WAS FOR “BUSINESS”, BUT I’M FAIRLY CERTAIN MOST OF IT WASN’T. THAT’S NOT MY PLACE TO JUDGE, THOUGH, SO I’LL JUST KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT ON THE TOPIC.**   
**KARKAT: NOW, IF YOU’RE FINISHED DIGGING THROUGH MY LIFE STORY LIKE IT’S A GODDAMN DIAMOND MINE, I’D LIKE TO GO TO SLEEP.**

**DAVE: Well, I had a few more inquiries; but, if you will only continue being this irritable, I advise you to go to bed.**   
**DAVE: Good night, Karkat.**

Before you can so much as think of a response, a message pops up at the bottom of the chat window.

_“DAVE has left the chat room”_

You respond with a sigh of weary relief and, after turning off the computer to ensure that no further interruptions can be made, you crawl (back) into bed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i'm not even going to try and lie about this one. i've been off playing animal crossing: new leaf and that game does wonders when it comes to completely wrecking your creativity. so, basically, i've gotten this much together and... yeaaah...

It’s midnight—at least you think it’s midnight—and you find yourself sprawled out on the floor of the abandoned house you visit on a far-too-regular basis. Your hooded sweatshirt is wadded into a loose heap and is currently being used as a pillow. The blanket you usually sit on is spread on the floor, forming a makeshift mattress.

None of these things are very alarming, though. As much as you hate to admit it, you fall asleep in this dump fairly often. Hell, you often come prepared for the occasion—as evidenced by your improvised pillow and backup blanket. No, what’s alarming is the muffled din of a nearby struggle.

What’s alarming is the rustling of dried underbrush and dead frondescence and the crepitation of footsteps pounding against dry, hard-packed spots of what was once mud. The hushed murmurings of unfamiliar voices. The whispering rattlings of overgrown foliage being trampled underfoot and, at the same time, a familiar voice uttering a confident sneer.

...Rose? No. It can’t be. Not at this time of the night. Not around here...

You quickly gather your things and stuff them into your backpack prior to heading for the door. As you reach for the handle, it turns, and the portal swings inwards, towards you. With an ungraceful stumble backwards, you dodge the incoming slab of wood.

“Karkat!?”

Your eyes dart upwards, towards a rather effete looking Rose. Her normally well maintained hair is tousled enough to qualify as messy, and her eyes are underscored by dark shadows. Superficial scrapes and nicks dot the length of her exposed forearms and run across her knuckles. Through a tear in her sweatshirt, you can see a hint of her white camisole.

“Yeah... I... Um...” you stammer. “What’re you...? How...? When the f—?”

As if to spare you the trouble of confusing yourself any more than you already have, Rose interjects. “Dave isn’t home yet,” she explains coolly. “While I am confident in his abilities to take care of himself, I can’t help but worry about his overall well being. As I have previously mentioned, he’s an inquisitive person by nature and his tendencies for adventure-seeking often lead him into varying degrees of trouble. I figured that he’d likely be here, though it seems that I’m wrong.”

“So are you trying to imply that you’d like for me to help you or—?” you begin to respond to Rose, but she cuts you off again.

“He’ll return eventually. Those idiotic drug dealers wandering around this decrepit abode mentioned seeing someone like him, though they haven’t a clue as to where he went.” She folds her arms and lets forth an enigmatic sigh before continuing. “So, what exactly are you doing here and why aren’t you at your apartment?”

You grope about in your groggy mind for a moment prior to replying. “Dad’s moving back to our house in the suburbs. There’s just not enough space in that shitty excuse for an apartment... Besides, the roof’s been fixed at this point, so there’s no real reason for him to be staying with me any more.”

“The roof?” Rose inquires.

“The old house’s roof caved in a while ago. Dad and I were out volunteering at the cemetery around then... Weeding and doing the shit no one else bothers to do, you know? Long, pointless story short: we came home and the house was roped off and condemned. We rented an apartment until it was fixed and Dad’s decided to let me stay there.” With an indifferent shrug, you conclude your explanation.

“Interesting...” Rose nods in a possibly dismissive manner. “My mother lives about three hours away... She originally planned on relocating with us, but the office she was going to work for after moving closed just prior to our move. Even so, she kept her end of the deal up and helped to pay for our current home, so I suppose it’s not exactly that much of a problem...”

“So..” you hesitate and try to pull some sort of conversational topic from the foggy, sleep-addled bog which is currently your mind. “You came here to look for Dave?”

“I’ve said that previously... Yes,” Rose responds with a hint of annoyance. “Are you really that tired? If you are, I recommend that you return to your apartment. Being around here in a comatose slumber is likely to end with your name in the obituaries tomorrow morning.”

You ignore her commentary and press onwards. (Normally, you’d leave the topic as it is. You’re not normally one to pry deeply into other people’s business; but, there’s always exceptions to the rule...) “So... Does Dave do this a lot?”

“Do what?” Rose responds shortly. “Get lost? No. He just tends to wander off and get himself into copious amounts of unwarranted trouble. Most people knew him where we used to live, and a majority of them happily sent him back home if they found him wandering around when and/or where he wasn’t supposed to be. However, being in a new place, those who know him have become a minority. I believe all of two or three— _maybe_ four—people know who he is...”

You take this information with a nod and file it away in the back of your mind. “And what about you? Do you usually go off looking for him?”

“Not really,” she shrugs. “Today’s the exception to the rule...”

You can’t help but smirk at her comment. It seems a lot of rules are being broken today... “I can tell that much.”

“Hm...” Rose returns with a dispassionate huff. “Well, it’s been a pleasant meeting, I suppose. But I have get back to looking for my idiotic prick of a brother, and I do believe that you should be heading home to catch a good night’s rest.”

“Whatever,” you shrug. “I’ll see you around?”

“Probably.”

To her short reply, you offer a smirk and a quick wave. Then, you wander out of the worn-down house and back to your apartment.


	9. Chapter 9

Two days ago, you ended up spilling an unnatural amount of personal information out to Rose via chat. Yesterday, you managed to run into her after falling asleep in the abandoned house ( _and_ after she, of all things, had managed to apparently beat up a few drug dealers). Today, you finally happen to meet her in a _fairly_ regular environment—the bookstore. However, you don’t actually have a chance to talk to her.

Being that today is one of your days off, Kanaya is at the counter and, as per usual, her hair is professionally styled back, out of her face. Her focus, however, isn’t where it usually is. Normally, she’s paying more attention to the book she has hidden in the keyboard compartment of the desk than the customers. Now, though, her focus is obviously on Rose, and she seems to be enthusiastically discussing something with her newfound comrade.

With both Rose and Kanaya occupied (by _each other_ ), and nothing worth reading in the romance section, you decide to check around outside.

 _Ding_. The door hits against the bells tied to the ceiling, alerting anyone who happens to be paying attention that someone is leaving the building. (However, seeing as no one is actually paying you any mind, your departure goes without notice.)

You step onto the footpath outside of the bookstore and look around. You scan the area for anyone you happen to know, though you see no one matching this broad description. Figuring that you have nothing else to do here, you enter your beaten up used Honda Civic (which has always carried with it an unpleasant odour) and return home.

 

* * *

 

**DAVE STRIDER wants to video chat with you!**   
**ACCEPT or DECLINE**

You find the message emblazoned across your computer screen as soon as you return home. According to the timestamp, it was sent ten minutes ago. Still, you figure there’s no harm in accepting the request. If Dave is bothering to chat with you, there has to be something that he wants to say. Otherwise, he’d be doing what everyone else does—ignoring you.

Click. The computer responds to your acceptance of the chat request with a quiet ringing followed by the subtle humming of your ancient computer processing unit. A new window opens, and a buffering alert appears within the confines of its rectangular enclosure. It remains this way for about a minute prior to finally displaying Dave’s image.

His sunglasses rest atop his head, nestled amongst his dirty blond hair like some sort of ridiculous bird perched within an equally ridiculous nest. He seems to be preoccupied with some sort of informational booklet, the title of which is indecipherable at the current resolution, and you can only presume that this is the activity he chose to engage in until you responded.

**KARKAT: YOU’RE ACTUALLY READING A BOOK.**   
**KARKAT: THIS IS SOMETHING NEW AND DIFFERENT. PERHAPS THERE IS HOPE FOR YOU.**

It takes a minute or two for Dave to notice that you’ve accepted his request; but, as soon as this information registers with him, he rather eagerly responds. He carelessly tosses aside the pamphlet which he had been so avidly pursuing only moment ago to talk to you.

**DAVE: nice to see you too dude**   
**DAVE: rose said she ran into you last night and you were sleeping like a goddamn baby in that trashy old house**

You sigh and roll your eyes in response to his comment, though you know your visual input doesn’t mean much when presented in such a low-quality format. Honestly, you react as such mostly to remind yourself that you’re having a discussion.

**KARKAT: YEAH. I DON’T HAVE THE FUZZIEST IDEA OF HOW THE FUCK I ACTUALLY ENDED UP SLEEPING IN THERE.**

That’s a lie. You know it’s a lie; but, you’re not going to openly admit to Dave that you actually enjoy sleeping in that potentially deadly assemblage of rotting wood and precariously rusting steel supports.

**KARKAT: NOW, IF YOU DON’T MIND ME ASKING, WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU LAST NIGHT? BECAUSE, ACCORDING TO ROSE, YOU WEREN’T AT HOME.**

Dave responds with a quiet huff, laced with poorly hidden traces of disgruntlement.

**DAVE: well im sorry if that bothers you or her but im perfectly able to take care of my own ass**   
**DAVE: and i sure as hell dont need another rose on my case**  
DAVE: because fuck knows having one well meaning stalker following me a goddamn probation officer is enough   
**DAVE: i need me time as much as you do**   
**DAVE: and hey heres a novel idea maybe if you let me talk for a minute i can actually explain what i was doing**

You can’t help but be caught off guard by the response’s blatantly scathing nature.

Up until now, you’ve never seen Dave react in such an aggressive fashion... To anything... He’s kept his cool through the most intense questions and responded in kind. Yet, now, when you bring up the topic of concern, he reacts with frighteningly passionate rebuke.

**KARKAT: FUCK!**   
**KARKAT: I’M SORRY.**   
**KARKAT: I DIDN’T REALISE THAT YOU TOOK A FRIEND’S WORRY TO BE A SIGN OF A LACK OF FAITH IN YOUR ABILITIES.**   
**KARKAT: AND AS AN ASIDE... NEWSFLASH! NOT EVERYONE AUTOMATICALLY THINKS YOU’RE INCAPABLE OF DOING ANYTHING.**

As per usual, you type what you think. You send off messages without prior consideration of their content. Impulsive responding. It’s scared away more friends than you’d care to admit and, though you’re a bit too distracted to notice it at the moment, it’s threatening to ring up another one-person charge.

**DAVE: oh well excuse me for pointing out a goddamned fact**   
**DAVE: newsflash for you too you asshole**   
**DAVE: not everything needs to be taken so fucking personally**   
**DAVE: damn**   
**DAVE: and here i thought id actually met someone that was fucking reasonable**

Again, you take to the keyboard without prior consideration of your rising frustration. You type without reading the words which appear on your screen.

**KARKAT: I’M BEING MORE REASONABLE THAN AN EDUCATED, IMPARTIAL, NONPARTISAN VOTER. YOU’RE THE ONE WHO FUCKING EXPLODED AFTER I PASSINGLY MENTIONED THAT I WAS CONCERNED FOR YOUR WELLBEING.**

An electronically distorted moan of dangerously mounting vexation comes from Dave’s end of the chat. The clacking of Dave typing a response grows perceptibly louder.

**DAVE: hell i didnt realise that you could just decide what i can and cant judge to be reasonable**   
**DAVE: oh and i guess i should be begging for your forgiveness because you dont have the same experiences that i do**   
**DAVE: ill start listing off the things im sorry for right fucking now**   
**DAVE: like im sorry that you havent seen those looks that people give you when they notice that youre different from them**   
**DAVE: i am sincerely apologetic for the fact that you have never been on the receiving end of one of those puke inducing looks of**   
**DAVE: oh you poor thing you dont know the joys of this and that**   
**DAVE: and im terribly sorry that you dont know how goddamn infuriating it is to see those same looks every single fucking day**   
**DAVE: should i keep going or do you understand my point**

By now, you’re too pissed off to actually care about much more than the biting sarcasm of his replies. You’ve stopped caring about what he’s saying. You’ve stopped caring about the fact that you’re actually talking to someone you consider a friend. All you care about is getting your point across.

**KARKAT: BRAVO FOR YOU, YOU INFLAMMATORY LITTLE SHIT.**   
**KARKAT: YOU CAN FORMULATE PASSABLY EMOTIONAL REBUTTALS TO AN ARGUMENT.**   
**KARKAT: THAT’S GREAT.**   
**KARKAT: DO YOU WANT A GODDAMN CERTIFICATE FOR IT???**

**DAVE: ...**   
**DAVE: no actually you know what i want**   
**DAVE: i want you to fuck off**   
**DAVE: i gave you a chance like i promised and youre blowing it to hell**   
**DAVE: youre just blowing holes in this whole friendship thing like its paper and youre the fucking shotgun**

**KARKAT: HEY, I’M NOT THE ONE WHO STARTED THIS GODDAMN INFRACTION.**   
**KARKAT: I MERELY SAID THAT I WAS CONCERNED FOR YOUR SAFETY. AND THEN *YOU* HAD TO GO AND BLOW A GESTURE OF SINCERITY TO OUTRAGEOUSLY HUGE PROPORTIONS.**   
**KARKAT: AND IF WE’RE GOING FOR USING IDIOTIC SIMILES, THEN I MIGHT AS WELL SAY THAT YOU BLEW IT UP LIKE IT WAS SOME KIND OF GODDAMN BOTOX EXPERIMENT.**

**DAVE: wow you really are an ass**   
**DAVE: i never realised until now**   
**DAVE: but youve got a whole lot of ugly hidden under that supposedly helpful and friendly shell of yours**   
**DAVE: maybe youll find some other fucker to degrade but you know what**   
**DAVE: it sure as hell wont be me**   
**DAVE: but hey thanks for doing this now**   
**DAVE: because i was just about to make one huge fucking decision and im glad i didnt waste it on you**

The message indicating that Dave is typing more pops up, but it quickly disappears, and a far more imperative notification takes its place.

**DAVE STRIDER disconnected.**

You initially react with a confident sneer. A personal affirmation of your victory. For a moment, you savour this sense of victory and, then, it hits you.

Everything you’d said turns around and runs through your chest like an unattenuated blade. The facts sink in.

You didn’t just win. You didn’t even come close to winning. You lost.

“Fuck!” you growl as you immediately begin to spam the video chat button. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

With every click, you grow increasingly aware of your own failure. “Dave?”

**Due to suspicious activity from your IP address, this account has been suspended for 24 hours.  
If this occurred due to an error, please contact support.**

“Dammit!” You slam your fists against the decade-old keyboard. “You goddamn piece of shit chat client!”

You rise from your seat, grab the computer processing unit, and tip it over. You watch as it tumbles from its spot atop the battered table and slams into your apartment’s carpeted floor.

A peacock blue screen makes a fleeting appearance upon your computer monitor before it disappears and you drop back into your desk chair. You slump over and let forth a muffled sob of frustration.

You remain in this position for an inderteminate amount of time. Time... By now, you neither acknowledge nor care about its passage. It’s irrelevant, much like the feelings you still harbour for a former friend. Eventually, however, you’re forced to acknowledge what you wish to avoid as the grandfather clock in the corner of the room strikes twelve. As if on queue, your phone begins to ring on the sixth chime of the clock's oversized bell. The incoming message rejuvenates what little hope you have left. You eagerly snatch up your phone and glance at its gently pulsating backlit screen.

Rose...

You open the message and begin to read it as if it were an announcement that you’d won the lottery; yet, you finish reading it as if it were your own funeral plans.

_“Well aren’t we a self-important prick? Honestly, Karkat, I had faith in you. I thought that you would be the perfect person to introduce Dave to a new and unfamiliar place. Unfortunately, it seems that I was as naïve as my brother. I wish you well in your future attempts at so-called friendship with other, similarly unaware passerby, and I warn you to keep a considerable distance between yourself and my companions from this point on. Thank you for your understanding.”_

You throw your phone as far as you possibly can, watch it smash against the wall, and return to your previous state of self-derisive despondency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~wow look it's an actual conflict super high school level surprise!~~
> 
>  
> 
> ...please ignore my stupid commentary...


	10. Chapter 10

At one point in your life, you recall that you had a friend by the name of John Egbert. You met him in elementary school, and he quickly became your best friend—second only to Sollux (who now lives a good ten hours’ drive away). As kids and even into your early teenage years, he’d often prank you to the point of insanity. His dream was to own a magic store, and you would always playfully harass him about how you’d build a similar shop next door just to annoy him.

Despite his often frustratingly absurd antics, he managed to teach you a good amount of life lessons. For instance, he taught you how to learn from your mistakes instead of beating yourself up relentlessly for them. (Well, for the most part... You still find yourself doing the latter from time to time.)

During your sophomore year of high school (around the holiday season, of all times), he and his father were involved in a car crash. They hit a patch of ice, the car lost traction, and slammed into a highway’s concrete barrier at high speed. It flipped, went over the division, and was subsequently hit by an oncoming SUV. His father was killed immediately; but, John managed to hang around long enough for everyone he gave a shit about to visit him. Two days after Christmas, he went into cardiac arrest and died.

It completely crushed you—hell, it completely devastated a good two thirds of your high school—but the world continued to turn. Life refused to stop for your grief and, eventually, it forced you to pick yourself back up and push onwards.

Sure, it’s a depressing story in your life. It was then, and it still is. But, good things came out of it.

In fact, if you aren’t mistaken, there’s one thing you learned from the experience that could be potentially useful in the current situation—and that would be the ability to pick yourself back up and forge onwards.

 

* * *

 

“Just give them some time to cool off... You know, let them steam until they’re ready. I guess you could compare them to vegetables, but that would be really kind of gross, so we won’t...” You can almost hear John—and his stupid, twerpy voice—spouting out the somewhat sage advice as you settle into your computer chair.

In accordance with the aforementioned advice, you allotted yourself one night to mope around about your miserable social failure and, then, you picked yourself up again. Things move forwards, you figure, and they’re not stopping because you made a mistake. As much as you hate to admit it, they didn’t stop for John; so, why would they give a damn about you?

Two days—one to be pissed off as hell and one to cool down a bit. It’s a rule you’ve followed for quite a while and, so far, it hasn’t failed. Thus, you’re banking upon it not failing now.

**KARKAT: OKAY, SO I’LL PREFACE THIS BY SAYING THAT YOU DON’T HAVE TO FORGIVE ME IF YOU DON’T WANT TO.**   
**KARKAT: I COMPLETELY UNDERSTAND IF YOU DON’T.**   
**KARKAT: BUT I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT I’M SORRY FOR EVERYTHING I SAID TO YOU APPROXIMATELY 48 HOURS AGO.**   
**KARKAT: I DIDN’T MEAN TO OFFEND YOU. I WAS JUST HONEST-TO-WHATEVER RELIGIOUS FIGUREHEAD YOU VENERATE WORRIED ABOUT YOU. I TRIED TO SAY THAT, BUT I GUESS I DIDN’T SAY IT VERY WELL.**   
**KARKAT: OR MAYBE I DIDN’T EXPLAIN WHAT I MEANT WELL ENOUGH. FUCK KNOWS I’M GUILTY OF SCREWING UP THINGS LIKE THAT ALL THE MOTHERFUCKING TIME...**

You sigh and let your fingers hover above the keyboard for a minute or two. Then, you continue.

**KARKAT: WHEN YOU REPLIED, MY STUPID BRAIN AUTOMATICALLY TOOK YOUR RESPONSE FOR AGGRESSION. WHICH MEANS I WENT INTO FULL-ON “OH FUCK YOU, YOU SHITLICKING BASTARD” MODE.**   
**KARKAT: I COMPLETELY DISREGARDED YOUR FEELINGS AND PUT MY OWN SELFISH, DICKISH NEED TO DRIVE HOME AN IDIOTIC POINT BEFORE THEM. AND I APOLOGIZE FOR THAT.**   
**KARKAT: HONESTLY, I WOULDN’T BE SURPRISED IF YOU’VE BLOCKED ME...**   
**KARKAT: AND YOU PROBABLY WON’T EVEN GET ANY OF THIS...**

You pause once more, sigh, and glance at the screen. Your words stare back at you—idiotically capitalised reminders of your own, massive imperfection.

 _Ding_.

**DAVE STRIDER is typing...**

Your jaw drops.

He didn’t block you...?

**DAVE: well that was another eloquent novel of self deprecation**   
**DAVE: but it seems like a pretty sincere apology**   
**DAVE: and honestly im probably at fault for coming back like i did**   
**DAVE: i mean as much as i like to deny it i can be a dick too**   
**DAVE: everyone can be**   
**DAVE: but i guess i just dicked a bit too hard**

You roll your eyes at his reply and allow yourself a quick chuckle before you respond to his message.

**KARKAT: HOW ABOUT WE BOTH AGREE TO NEVER SAY THAT EITHER OF US “DICKED” IN ANY WAY SHAPE OR FORM EVER AGAIN?**

**DAVE: okay yeah that was a really bad way to put that**   
**DAVE: i agree with your agreement**

**KARKAT: SO DOES THAT MEAN THAT WE ARE “ALL GOOD” NOW?**

**DAVE: yeah pretty much**

**KARKAT: AND WOULD ROSE STILL HAPPEN TO BE MAD AT ME?**

**DAVE: she looked through the chat yesterday actually and decided that you were just as guilty as i was**   
**DAVE: so youre all clear with both the strilondes**

**KARKAT: THERE’S ANOTHER THING I NEVER WANT YOU TO SAY AGAIN.**

**DAVE: what?**   
**DAVE: strilondes is a perfectly cool thing to say**

**KARKAT: NO. IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU’RE SHIPPING YOURSELF WITH YOUR SISTER.**   
**KARKAT: AND THAT IS DISGUSTING.**   
**KARKAT: JUST DON’T DO IT.**   
**KARKAT: NAME SMASHING IS A HORRIBLE THING TO DO WITH A FAMILY MEMBER.**

**DAVE: you must have had less of a life than i thought you did when i met you**   
**DAVE: that is saying a lot and what it’s saying sure aint good**

For a brief moment, you can swear that you hear a semblance of a voice in the back of your mind—a type of substitute for the Dave’s. It’s a fleeting sensation, though you manage to pick up on the concept of a smooth-ish voice with a pronounced Texan drawl.

**KARKAT: SO... WOULD IT BE OKAY IF WE TRY THIS CONVERSATION AGAIN?**   
**KARKAT: AND BY “THIS CONVERSATION” I REFER TO THE DISCUSSION WE WERE PREVIOUSLY HAVING.**

**DAVE: well im going to the doctors soon**   
**DAVE: and this thing is really best discussed when weve got some visuals to visualize the things**   
**DAVE: so how about we put it on hold for now and**   
**DAVE: oh fuck well it looks like when i said soon i really meant now**   
**DAVE: ill see you later i guess try not offend anyone else too much while im not watching you**

**KARKAT: WHY DO I HAVE THE SUDDEN, HORRIFIC FEELING THAT I’M NEVER GOING TO LIVE DOWN OUR LAST CONVERSATION?**

**DAVE: maybe cause you might not**   
**DAVE: but on the bright side maybe you will who knows because i sure as hell dont**   
**DAVE: it all depends on how often you manage to step on my toes**   
**DAVE: now im real sorry to be running like this but ive seriously got to go so**   
**DAVE: ill catch you around maybe**

You sigh and watch as the message indicative of his departure appears on your computer monitor. You take a moment to consider your luck and shut down your sputtering computer. (Perhaps knocking the CPU to the ground wasn’t that great of an idea after all...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~wow that sure is some suspiciously fast conflict resolution~~  
> ...  
>  please ignore my commentary...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow this was still about 1000 words it's mostly brain barf fluff... this is basically an insignificant chapter meant to show them fucking around like bros and shit (i don't know)... but, yeah, i hope to have the ball rolling on a major plot point soon but i have to get the setup in for it and all... please bear with me because there may or may not be a great deal of fluff and just general fucking around like this in the foreseeable future...

It’s been five hours since you last chatted with Dave. He’s since returned from his doctor’s visit, informed you of Rose’s relatively brief outing with Kanaya, and invited you to spar with him. (Apparently, “talking with visuals” was his way of saying “I want to spar with you”...) Now, he stands before you with his face hidden behind a protective fencing mask and his attenuated sword’s capped tip pointed at your chest.

 _Thud_. He stomps his left foot once. A cloud of dust flies into the air and the match begins.

 _Cr-ching_! Your sword’s horizontal sweep is halted by a nonchalant upwards stroke of his parrying dagger. Using his momentum, he traps also manages to trap your blade between his dagger’s edge and its quillon. He directs your blade in a wide circle and jabs at your chest with his rapier. The point d’arrête presses against your sternum and you lower your sword. You stomp twice—a signal you and Dave devised to indicate a touch without the need for excessive verbalisation.

He withdraws and lowers his sword. “Hmph,” he nods and steps back a few paces prior to raising his blades once more. As per usual, he begins with the tip of his rapier pointed at you and his dagger pointed downwards. (It’s an odd strategy if you think about it. Sure, pointing the parrying dagger towards the grounds gives you a definite advantage when dealing with cuts going from bottom to to top but, in most other situations, it’s just an inconvenient and seemingly uncomfortable way to grip your weapon...)

Another stomp. Another dust cloud. A new match begins.

He lunges at you. You block him. His blade’s point scrapes briefly against the fuller of dagger before he withdraws. As he draws back, you leap forwards. Your blade touches against his mid torso prior to slightly giving way.

Two stomps from Dave acknowledge your victory. A pause indicates that he has another message. Three stomps evince the fact that he’s finished for the day.

Nodding, you remove your mask, and put away your weapons. He does likewise and, once you’re both finished cleaning up, you decide to try something from one of the sign language books you found in a nearby library’s discarded book pile. With your palm facing inwards, you place the fingers of your right hand against your lips. Then, you bring your right hand down to about chest level. Your palm is still facing upwards and, unless you’ve managed to do this horribly wrong, it should mean “good”. At the very least, it should mean something like that...

Upon completion of this gesture, you glance towards Dave for affirmation. He’s grinning and—from what you can tell—he’s fairly surprised to see that you know something in sign language (though you’re still unsure of its true meaning). The phone vibrates seconds later, notifying you of his response.

_well call me something highly derogatory and roll me up in some goddamn pita bread_   
_i knew rose was planning teaching you some shit but i didnt know shed already started_   
_that meant good by the way oh and it also means thanks depending on the situation_   
_if youre saying thanks do the same thing but do it while facing the asshole youre thanking_

After reading his reply, you nod and relax a bit. In the back of your mind, you give your self esteem a much-needed pat on the back. For once, you did something right without horribly fucking it up beforehand.

_COOL... I WAS WORRIED THAT I’D FUCKED UP AND SAID SOMETHING I DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT._

_well i mean i sure as hell aint gonna shank you if you get something wrong_   
_and i wouldnt have shanked you just now if youd done it wrong either_   
_unlike some people im cool with the fact that youre not exactly an expert in sign language_   
_just dont go around trying it with random people you meet in the street because damn thats a bad idea_

_WHY IN HELL WOULD I SO MUCH AS *THINK* ABOUT DOING SOMETHING SO PANTS-SHITTINGLY STUPID AS THAT?_

_i dont know maybe if youre really incredibly and unbelievably drunk off your ass you might think its as great an idea as a fart powered car_   
_like if you had a pan galactic gargle blaster or something_   
_really dude im just giving you all the warnings_   
_its like how mcdonalds has to say that their coffee is hot on the cup yknow_

_NO... BUT I THINK I’LL JUST TAKE YOUR WORD FOR IT..._

_that is an awesome idea because im leaving to go home now_

_WE’VE ONLY HAD FOUR BOUTS AND SPOKEN FOR ALL OF FIVE FUCKING MINUTES AND YOU ALREADY WANT TO GO HOME!? AM I ACTUALLY THAT FUCKING BORING?_

_its not so much about wanting to go home and more about rose and kanaya getting back from their supposedly not romantic and completely platonic meeting at kanayas house_   
_really though we all know whats actually happening i mean the only way they can make it more obvious is by tattooing it across their goddamn foreheads_   
_wow that was a lot of bullshit_   
_short and simple reason is that ive gotta do some shit before rose gets home or shell kill me_

You let forth a somewhat disappointed sigh, though you respond with an understanding nod.

_OKAY THEN. I GUESS THAT’S A SOMEWHAT REASONABLE RESPONSE. GO TAKE CARE OF THINGS BEFORE SHE BEATS THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF YOU, I GUESS, YOU IRRESPONSIBLE IGNORAMUS._

_yeah youre my favorite friend too cat ass_

_IF YOU PERSIST WITH THIS “CAT-ASS” BUSINESS, I SWEAR THAT I WILL GIVE YOU A ONE-WAY TICKET TO A PERFECT VIEW OF THE INSIDE OF ONE._

_mhm id pay money to see you try and do that_   
_but if you dislike my kickass name for your so much maybe ill just get a new one_   
_like oh hey what about carcass yeah youre now carcass_   
_see you around carcass_

Before you can respond, Dave offers you a halfway apologetic and halfway “fuck-yes-I-annoyed-you-more” kind of smile. Then, he departs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~UNNECESSARY CHAPTERS OF STUPIDITY AND BRAIN BARF!~~  
>  i don't know why i actually put these comments on these fics...


	12. Chapter 12

“My job would be so much easier if people learned how to properly shelve books...” you mumble to yourself as you return a misplaced copy of _Fifty Shades of Gray_ to its supposedly rightful spot (which, both surprisingly and unfortunately, does not happen to be the garbage can). “I mean... It can’t possibly be that fucking hard. Just look at the fucking letter, sing that shitty little alphabet song, and see which comes first...”

At this point, your ranting is interrupted by an unexpected presence—a pale hand which reaches forwards and grabs another of the unshelved books lying at your feet.

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” you shriek as you turn around, another misplaced book in hand, ready to beat the intruder into submission. “THE STORE IS CLOSED! CAN’T YOU READ THE FUCKING SIGNS!? WE’RE—” You cut yourself off as you finally recognise the pale, blond-haired idiot standing before you. “God... You nearby gave me a fucking heart attack, you duplicitous little shit...”

Dave smirks and mirrors what happens to be both the first and last sign you showed him. “Good.” He emphasises his point with a quiet snicker of laughter. Then, he pulls out his phone.

“ _well fuck i guess ill need to try harder next time_ ”

You counter with a roll of your eyes. “Quite simply, I suppose I should say yes. But, the unasked question still stands. How in the name of God did you even get in here?”

For some reason, Dave decides that this is the perfect opportunity to try his hand at charades. He presses his left hand against an invisible barrier—an action which unfortunately calls to mind an image of a miserable mime trapping itself within an invisible box of self-hatred. Then, with his right hand, he makes a gesture recollective of turning a doorknob. He proceeds to open this invisible door prior to stepping forward a bit and shrugging.

“The door... Wait... You’re telling me the door was unlocked?” you grumble wearily.

He responds by nodding.

“GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!” you thunder as you slam the book in your hand against the ground. “I told that incompetent bastard to lock the doors when he left! I—Argh! Fucking dammit!”

At this point, you notice that Dave has put a fair bit of distance between yourself and him. You can only assume that this is due to your sudden outburst. Perhaps, you reason, it was a combination of your unexpected yelling and the vibrations of the book being slammed against the ground which startled him. You take this into account and let forth an aggravated sigh. Then, you give yourself a minute or so to silently let off some steam.

“Sorry,” you respond once you feel you’ve cooled off enough. “I didn’t mean to make you shit your pants or anything... We have a changing station if you need it.” You reply with a fair deal of idiotic humour, hoping that it will clear the stagnant social atmosphere.

“ _aw hey now thats not nice maybe my scats not okay with you make fun of it like that besides i didnt shit myself i was just a little spooked by your sudden hulk smashing of..._  
 _oh_  
 _oh fuck_  
 _oh god_  
 _ew_  
 _thats fifty shades of gray_  
 _dude why are you even holding that?_ ”

You roll your eyes and shrug. “Honestly, I have no fucking idea why this demeritorious excuse for romantic literature is in my hand aside from the fact that fucking blockheads pick the damned thing up and put it back in the wrong place. And it’s not as rare of an issue as you may think. It’s a goddamn pandemic, because it happens _all the fucking time_!”

Dave retorts with a snort of laughter prior to glancing at the spine of the book he’d picked up moments ago. After looking at it, he sets it atop the bookshelf behind both you and him so that he can send you another text message.

“ _well it seems i got myself a nifty little self help number about some newfangled meditation thing_  
 _any tips on where i can put this so you dont have to bother with it_ ”

After a moment of thought, you turn and glance at the cover. Then, you nod. “Go straight down the next five bookshelf groups, turn left, and go up to the aisle until you’re three rows away from the front... That make sense? Ack... It probably doesn’t. I suck at a fuckton of things and giving directions is one of them. But... Um... Just look at the green signs over the shelves. They’ll tell you the section.”

For a moment, he seems confused, but, after only a few seconds, he figures out what you mean. He lets forth a neutral sigh and wanders off. He shelves the book in what you hope is the proper spot and returns. As he reaches to grab another book, you catch him by the wrist.

“Why exactly are you here, anyhow? Don’t you have better things to do than hang out with a bookstore worker who can’t even get a fucking promotion from doing all this goddamn grunt work?” You speak without hesitation. “I mean... It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday night. You’ve got to have better places to be at than here.”

Dave returns with a frown as you release your grip on his wrist. Then, he types.

“ _not really i mean not a lot of people here know me_  
 _and im perfectly fine with just hanging out around you_  
 _rose is at kanayas again and theyre probably getting it on_  
 _like its not even probably i know they are_  
 _but thats not the point_  
 _i guess what i mean to say is that_  
 _well um_  
 _hey_  
 _yeah_  
 _let me think about this for a mo and ill get right back to you_ ”

At this point, you fold your arms across your chest and sigh. “You want to have a relationship with someone which is similar to the relationship you’re witnessing between your sister and my best friend? Basically, you want me to be your fuckbuddy?”

Dave vehemently denies this by shaking his head and raising a finger to indicate that he’s typing.

“ _no_  
 _no no hell no fucking hell no_  
 _i just want someone to screw around with and do stupid shit with_  
 _you know like sneak onto the kids playground and do stupid shit_  
 _and maybe just hang out like were doing now yknow?_ ”

“Hm...” you ponder the situation.

On one hand, you know that there’s part of him—no matter how small—that is at least partially inclined to using you as a means for establishing a relationship like his sister’s. On the flipside, though, you recognise both his and your own need for companionship. After all, you’ve seen what happened with Eridan—that loner in your high school who recently got life in prison for murdering five former classmates... And, if you’re being completely honest, you’d have to admit that he’s not that bad to look at. In fact, you could even say he’s attractive.

“Fine,” you eventually respond. “I’ll take that as an acceptable answer, Strider... You earn a ‘C’ and pass the class as an average student. You have neither surpassed nor failed to meet my epectations, congratulations. You are officially another fucking face in another crowd.”

To this, Dave responds with a rather exuberant fistpump.

“ _oh hell yes im an average student_  
 _its like i just took high school chemistry all over again_ ”

“Hey! Don’t get yourself too goddamned worked up over this. You’ll give yourself a vivacity aneurism,” you snicker.

“ _and you be careful with that banter_  
 _you might come down with a serious case of friendship_  
 _and i sure aint a pro by any means_  
 _but word on the street says its fatal_  
 _yeah that friendship shit_  
 _ive heard it fucks you up good_ ”

You can’t help but laugh at his asinine commentary. “Yes, well, I’ll be sure to watch out for that like a bird looks for inconvenient spots to take a shit...” As you speak, you put away the last dislocated romance novel. You then proceed to stumble to your feet and let forth a tired groan. “Well, moron, it’s been a fun time sorting books with you... And I hope you had a fucking riveting time putting away a book, but I have to lock this shitpen up and get some sleep. So... See you later?”

Dave returns with a startlingly enthusiastic grin.

“ _hell fucking yeah i gotcha i need to get home too cause rose wanted me to do the laundry i havent done yet so yeah ill see you around_ ”

After he’s sure you’ve read this, he offers you a parting wave. Then, he traipses out the bookstore’s front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i almost forgot karkat worked at a bookstore, too, it's okay.


	13. Chapter 13

Two days ago, you nearly beat Dave to death with a romance novel due to the fact that you believed that he was an intruder. Sixteen hours ago, Dave invited you to come with him to the amusement park. (Apparently, Rose had originally planned on going with him, but, seeing as she came down with a flu approximately twenty hours ago, both she and Dave agreed that it would be better for her to stay home.)

Now, you find yourself sitting in Dave’s bright red 2010 Ford Mustang. Your nails have long since plunged themselves into the leather of the passenger’s seat and they remain embedded even as the car comes to a screeching halt in the parking lot of the nearby amusement park. Once the car has come to a complete stop, Dave glances at you and smirks. He lets forth a wild laugh prior to engaging the parking brake. Then, he whips out his phone.

_“it wasnt that bad dude”_

“Wasn’t that bad!?” you sputter as you finally release the seat from your terrified clutches. “ _Wasn’t that bad_!? You drifted like a fucking competitive race car driver _just to keep yourself from having to turn around later_!”

Dave replies with dismissive shrug, a nonchalant smirk, and a laugh.

_“sweet baby jesus dude chill your tits there wasnt anyone around and i knew what i was doing_   
_besides it was a pretty wide road and there was shitloads of space to do it without killing anyone”_

You let forth an irritated sigh and reluctantly admit that you’ll never win this so-called argument. “Fine then, Dave. Whatever you fucking say...”

_“dude if you dont like that then im gonna just go ahead and say youre not a fan of thrill rides”_

“Well,” you fold your arms and direct your gaze away from Dave, opting to focus on a flagpole instead, “I really don’t. Roller coasters are not my fucking thing, but I agreed to come because I thought it would be more entertaining than sitting at home on my pathetic ass all day.”

This admission is met with a snicker.

_“well i guess thats a good enough reason for it i mean anything you do with me is gonna be better than anything because well im me so...”_

“I thought we were finished with Doctor Dickshit’s pompous tirades of self-important idiocy,” you grumble.

_“we are i just wanted to point that out now get your ass in gear its almost noon and the parks not open all fucking day”_

You respond with a somewhat disinterested but slightly amused grumble before following him to the turnstiles. Upon arrival at the gate, you’re surprised to find that the staff member taking the tickets appears to know Dave. In fact, they greet him with a wide grin and a surprisingly enthusiastic wave.

Dave, meanwhile, begins to dig through his pockets. Aside from the expected wallet and key set, he pulls forth an assortment of oddities—two halfway empty packs of gum, assorted change, five paperclips, a miniaturised stapler, an old McDonald’s receipt, and a few packets of ketchup—before he manages to find a pair of season passes. He sets these tickets upon the counter and offers an apologetic half-smile as he promptly stuffs the miscellanea back into his pockets.

“So... Let me guess... Rose is sick and Dave’s dragged you here?” It takes you a moment to register that the voice is coming from the staff member and several seconds thereafter to realise that they’re talking to you.

“Hm? Oh... Yeah. Why?” you respond a bit dazedly.

“No reason,” they shrug and return the passes to Dave. “If you don’t like roller coasters, I suggest you be ready to hold the excessive amount of shit that this moron is going to end up getting.” To conclude their statement, they jab a playful finger towards Dave. Then, they let you pass through the gates and into the park...

“So...” You jog to catch up with Dave who, at this point, has already managed to put a few yards between you and him. To catch his attention, you gently tap him on the shoulder. He turns around, prompting you to continue. “You know that guy?”

Dave chews on his lip and thinks for a minute. Then, he responds.

_“not really but i tend to hang out around here on an abnormally regular basis seeing as i have nothing else to do and sometimes ill help out a little with cleaning up and shit_   
_the staff just likes me i guess i mean most of them know me by name and i dont know half of them”_

You reply to this matter-of-fact answer with a nod of satisfaction. “Good enough answer for me... So... What hellish torment will you be inflicting upon me today? Which glorified train tracks of metallic and fibreglass mindfuckery and terror shall you be forcibly placing me upon?”

A laugh precedes Dave’s reply.

_“actually i get it if you hate this kind of shit its not exactly everyones forte_   
_if you dont want to ride it dont im not gonna make you do anything you dont want to”_

“Well...” you breathe, “That was a surprisingly open-ended but reasonable answer...”

To this, Dave returns with a somewhat cocky grin.

_“of course it is now get your ass moving a little faster cause i want to ride some shit even if you dont”_

 

* * *

 

At approximately 1:53PM, you and Dave joined the queue for the park’s most popular roller coaster. Seeing as you had no interest in riding the particular coaster, you dismissed the name. (Actually, you’ve dismissed the name of every ride you’ve seen that wasn’t a milder form of entertainment.)

Currently, it is 3:54PM. You’ve been stuck in line with an impossibly excited Dave for two hours, waiting for a chance to _remove yourself from the line_... After all, you don’t want to _ride_ the goddamned thing. What was it that Dave said about its speed? Fifty-three? Yeah, you think that’s what he said. Fifty-three miles per hour. No thank you. You would never so much as brush the tip of your shoe against the coaster’s cars...

“Are you riding or not?” A voice draws you away from your thoughts and forces you to notice a rather irritated-looking ride operator staring at you. His arms are folded, and his eyes dart from you to the empty spot beside Dave. “Are. You. Riding?” he repeats himself louder, more purposefully.

“I—” you try and get it out before he can throw you onto the ride but, for some reason, you can’t. Hell, before you can even think about finishing your statement, your wrist is enclosed within the iron grip of an irritated park employee. Without so much as a second to react, you are then shoved towards the roller coaster’s car.

Perhaps it’s because you’re already embarrassed enough as it is—or, maybe, it’s due to the confused daze you’re in—but, for whatever reason, you comply. You drop into the seat and allow yourself to be secured in place.

“Great... Ready to go...” The operators’ voices are now muffled by the plethora of excited screams emanating from sugar-high riders.

“Um...?” A confused mumble from Dave distracts you long enough for the ride to begin with a gentle dip. You continue to watch as he tried to communicate with you, though his efforts are quickly negated by the train entering a dark event area. The cars are thrown into a seemingly endless series of high-speed turns—none of which are visible in the darkened space—and promptly surrounded by far too many light and sound effects. A mid-sized hill follows shortly after this and, then, the ride comes to a merciful halt. However, seeing as you’re still within the dark enclosure, you come to the unfortunate conclusion that the ride isn’t over yet.

And, not surprisingly, you’re right. It’s not over...

Holographic red eyes appear just as you reach this conclusion and the ride launches into an eighteen foot drop. This is followed by another small dip and several stomach-churning curves. It rises to the top of a hill, stops momentarily, and throws you into a larger drop. Then, it takes a hard left turn, at which point you finally see it—the loading area.

The train comes to a halt, and you stumble forth. You reel in shock for only two or three seconds prior to allowing yourself to puke over the edge of the departing platform’s safety railing.

_“dude you look fucking terrible”_

The phone is shoved into your line of view, drawing your visual focus towards a rather concerned-looking Dave. “Yeah?” you mumble, “Well I _feel_ pretty fucking terrible. As you would so idiotically put it—ain’t that a goddamn shocker?” After finishing this statement, you expel some more of your lunch.

_“hey i tried to get you off the ride but you wouldnt listen to me and you were too busy daydreaming about fuck knows what to notice the angry ride operator so its not completely my fault”_

“True,” you grumble, your stomach finally beginning to settle. “But, you did talk me into getting in line with you. And we did wait two fucking hours for  ride that lasted all of four damnable minutes.”

Dave frowns and chews his lip. His thumbs hover hesitantly above his phone’s touch screen keyboard. “Hm...” he muses aloud (you suppose it could be put that way) prior to making his reply.

_“thats true and if you want to leave id understand completely and ill drive you back”_

“You’ll drive me back?” you snicker, “Really? I thought I’d just sprout wings from my ass and fly back! No, I’m fine. Do whatever you want. Just don’t expect me to get into more lines with you.”

A look of incomprehensibly profound confusion crosses Dave’s face.

_“youll stay?_   
_dude you just puked up your lunch_   
_and ill be happy to drive you home to make up for this”_

You respond by defiantly folding your arms across your chest. “I’m fucking fine. Really. And I’ll stay as long as you want. Just don’t expect me to stand in another imbecilic line for you.”

_“well thats a reasonable request i guess_   
_so um i guess youll accept my apologies for this shit?”_

“Mhm,” you nod, then avert his gaze. “After all, I have to admit that I can easily refer to you as a friend of sorts—albeit an illogical and conceited one.”

Dave returns with a slightly nervous half-smile.

_“well then i guess the friendship thing is mutual_   
_cause even though youre a pompous asshole the only label i can truthfully give you is friend so_   
_yeah”_

After the final message, his odd little grin changes to a look of bemused concern. His fingers fly across the screen and, within a matter of seconds, your phone receives his reply.

_“and it looks like you need some napkins_   
_theres an ice cream booth across from the ride exit so lets go there_   
_unless of course you want to walk around with traces of vomit all over you for the rest of the day”_

“I do not—” as you begin to refute his claim, you notice that your left shoe has a fair amount of the aforementioned substance on it. A reluctant sigh precedes your admittance, “Fine... Just... Try not to make too much of a scene.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee,” Dave’s subsequent smirk seems to say.

“Of course... You can’t tie your own shoes without drawing attention in some way, shape, or form, can you?” Though you say this with an irritated tone, you can’t help but smile. “What-fucking-ever... Just lead on, you presumptuous prick.” You wave your hand in the air to emphasise your point, and he obeys your command...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may have noticed that the roller coaster featured in this story is ~~based off of~~ basically a description of **[a ride that _actually exists_](http://seaworldparks.com/en/buschgardens-williamsburg/Attractions/Rides/Verbolten)**. congrats to you if you've noticed that. you have a very, very slight chance of having met me before. also, i've never been on this particular ride. i, much like my headcanon karkat, am not a huge fan of roller coasters. so, yeah, i'll admit it—i based the description off of youtube videos and wikipedia. woo.


	14. Intermission 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~wow! look! an actual update! wowee!~~

**Your name is David Strider**  and it’s probably worth mentioning that you purposefully instigated the recent verbal scuffle between you and Karkat. It’s also worth mentioning that you happen to be beneath one of the nearby park’s ten gazebos, watching boredly as the night’s thick cloud cover passes carelessly between you and the moon.

You’ve been sitting in this gazebo for at least twelve hours. You’ve watched as the morning’s relentless rains gave way to the overcast day.

What else have you been doing? Well, the answer to that is, quite simply, nothing. You’ve been haphazardly staring at nothing in particular and flipping a booklet you received in the mail over in your hands. You haven’t even looked at the booklet; you’ve just turned it about in your hand.

It (the brochure, that is) happens to be advertising some sort of experimental so-called “treatment” for hearing loss. Really, it’s just one of innumerable, similar “offers” that get mailed to you on a regular basis. Normally, you’d ignore it—after all, the reason you can’t hear out of your right ear just so happens to be one of those convoluted experiments. This one, however, seems more promising. For starters, it’s a proven method. The cost of all associated medical treatment is compensated for and the facility testing the device is conveniently located an hour away from your current abode...

Still, you can’t help but wonder if it’s worth it. Do you really want to risk another spectacular failure? Do you really want to risk more disappointment? More importantly, are you unwaveringly certain that you’re willing to part with something that’s become such an integral part of you?

You mean... Yes, it takes longer to talk to people, and some will wander off before you can so much as finish your introduction. Sure, you often find yourself on the receiving end of commentary regarding how much effort so-and-so had to put into alerting you to their presence. And, of course, it’s much harder to come by music which you can easily appreciate and, by the same token, even harder to find music players that will allow for you to turn the volume up enough to hear so much as a muffled bassline. Even so, you’ve come to view all of these as trivial problems.

Most of your life and a majority of what you’ve come to know about the world is rooted in near-silence. You are who you’ve become thanks to that very same quietness. Your quick wit stems from your need to respond quickly in order to keep people’s attentions. You’ve come to adopt your sunglasses as everyday attire thanks to the fact that some people get inexplicably unnerved by you staring at their lips throughout a conversation. Hell, your entire “cool” act began as a grade school excuse for your constant silence...

Were you—no, are you ready to so willingly part with all of this?

No, not really. Not yet...

Later, you think, but not now...


	15. Chapter 15

**Your name is once again Karkat Vantas** and you find yourself stuffed into a passably comfortable suit and seated across from Dave Strider, who just so happens to be working feverishly on the canvas before him. His sunglasses are perched atop his head, and his eyes are darting constantly between you and his working surface. His face is covered in smears of multicoloured paint—as are his clothes—and bits of his hair of matted together by the very same pigmentation.

‘Dave...” A stomp of your foot accompanies your verbal cue.

He peeks around the canvas and raises a brow. “What?” he seems to say. “I’m working.”

“I’ve been sitting like this for an hour and a half, you know. My ass is getting rather sore. Actually, for all I know, my ass may have fused to this chair at this point,” you respond honestly.

Dave lets forth a loud sigh and nods. He sets aside his palette and offers a more detailed explanation. For your benefit, he signs far slower than he usually does. “Fine. I guess I’m done.”

“No, I didn’t mean for you to stop completely!” you counter.

“No. Seriously. I’m done. Come look.” Dave beckons you to his side with both index fingers extended slightly inwards, pointing towards one another. He flicks his wrists so that, at the end of the movement, each finger is pointing towards him. A nervous smile is spread across his paint-covered face and, for all intensive purposes, he looks like some sort of deranged artist.

“Oh hell,” you sigh, “I’ve got to say that I’m pretty scared of whatever shit you might be about to pull on me, Dave.” A playful roll of your eyes accompanies this statement as you approach the canvas.

“It’s not that bad!” he laughs.

You nod, as if to say “We’ll see about that,” and glance at the canvas, only to find yourself a bit taken aback by its contents. Sure, you halfway expected it to be something serious; yet, at the same time, the other half of you expected some sort of over-the-top caricature. What you’re looking at, however, is something which rests perfectly between these two extreme expectations.

On one hand, it’s painted in a serious, realistic style. Your features are placed with painstaking precision, and anatomy is obviously a key point in the painting (unlike many of the idiotic comics Dave often doodles). At the same time, it has its exaggerated spots. Your brows are comically furrowed, though their inwards-slanting angle does not exceed far beyond the realm of believability. In a similar way, your lips are curled into a rather displeased frown. The sloppiness of your hair is also exaggerated but, again, it still falls within the realm of believability.

“ _Hmph_...” You fold your arms across your chest and turn your attentions towards a rather expectant-looking Dave. “That’s impressive work for a little shit whom I initially believed to be a piss-poor excuse for an artist,” you grumble. “...I don’t actually _look like that_ , though, do I?”

To this, Dave responds with another laugh. He sets the canvas aside and grabs his sketchbook. With remarkable speed, he flips to a blank page, takes the pencil from its spot behind his right ear, and begins scribbling. At first, it doesn’t look like much. It’s an oval with a cross dividing it into fourths. Then, it’s an oval with lines jutting from it. The lines cross inwards and outwards, overlap like highways, diverge wildly, and cluster together. They appear with every seemingly haphazard stroke of the pencil he makes and, slowly, they come together to form an image.

At least ten minutes pass between the beginning of the piece and the end result, though the tangled graphite lines eventually form a more realistic image of you. Your messy hair has been toned down to what you can only assume to be a normal level of sloppiness, and your brows are set in a relatively neutral position. The crease between them, however, remains—a faint line against a sea of negative space. Vertical lines are sketched lightly on your lower lip, marking the spots which you habitually bite when you’re nervous or thinking and the entire image is circled. A line stemming from this circle connects the image to a comment which Dave has written in the corner— _youre a whole lot easier on the eyes... actually more like this_.

“Really?” you mutter. “That’s how I look?”

Dave nods and scribbles another comment onto the page.

“ _i draw what i see so yeah thats how you really look_ ”

At this point, you can’t help but smile. “Well, I can say that you’re not an eyesore, either. I’d draw you, but I have the artistic talent of a dead pigeon.”

This time, the reply is another of his odd little half-smiles. He carefully rips out the sketchbook page, signs it, and sprays it with a layer of fixative. Then, he sets it aside to dry. “You can have it once it’s not gross and slimy.”

“Thanks, I suppose,” you jokingly retort.

“No problem.” With this said, he wanders over to the canvas and carefully picks it up. He sets it upon the nearby drying rack before continuing. “It’s getting late. I’ll keep the picture. You go home before Rose yells at me for keeping you here too long.”

“It wasn’t too long!” you chuckle. “If it was, I’d make sure that you fucking knew it.”

“I know you would.” Dave offers you a dismissive wave of his hand. “But that’s a tertiary matter, isn’t it? Go on. Be a good little boy and run along.”

“Of course, your royal pain in the ass.” To add to the statement, you perform a theatrical and completely insincere bow. Then, you take your leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~that was completely unnecessary fluff~~


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: I fixed the dashes linking to another fic. I sincerely apologise for this mistake in copy-and-pasting nonstandard punctuation into Google Documents.

You wake with a start to the sensation of someone hesitantly tapping you on the shoulder. Normally, you’d be completely freaked out by this occurrence (after all, you live alone) but, seeing as Dave is staying with you for the next few days, you’re far less startled than you would be otherwise. Still, you’re a bit taken aback by the sudden wake-up call.

“Ugh...” you groan. “What? What the fuck do you want?”

You’re prodded once more and drawn further out of your peaceful slumber.

“What!?” you snap as you crack open your right eye and stare somewhat despondently at the confused blond before you. “Dave!” Before he can jab a pale finger into your shoulder again, you grab his hands. You pull yourself into a sitting position and level your most irritated glare with his nervous gaze.

He responds by swiftly wrenching his hands free of your grip and rolling his eyes at you before continuing. “Damn,” he tries to sign as he normally does, though you notice a perceptible anxiety beneath his usual calm—the faintest shaking of his hands and an infrequent, nervous twitching of one of his fingers. “Rose was right. You’re not a morning person.”

“Hmph,” you respond with an irritable huff. You hold your left hand out so that it is flattened in front of you—as if its downward-facing palm is pressed against a table. Then, you run your similarly poised right hand from a spot—approximately located near the tip of your left hand’s index finger—upwards, stopping an inch or so behind your wrist. Technically, it’s not correct sign language. Dave understands it, though, so it gets the job done. At least between you and him, it’s meant as a way to indicate that either you or him needs to slow down. This time, needless to say, he’s the one at fault.

“Sorry...” He lets forth an enigmatic sigh prior to continuing at a slower pace. “I said that Rose was right. You don’t do well waking up early.”

You roll your eyes and shrug. “No. I don’t. Now, why the fuck did you wake me up?”

At this point, Dave retorts with a strangled, nervous laugh. “I need to talk to you.”

“Well,” you grumble, “That much is painfully obvious. I mean, it’s so painfully obvious that you could go so far as to say it’s agonisingly obvious.”

Dave frowns and his brows furrow in a show of momentary disapproval. “Could you tone it down on your usual asshat a little? I know it just happens, but I’d like if you could at least act like you’re interested.”

“It’s not that I’m disinterested. You should know that by now, idiot. The main problem right now is that I don’t see why you couldn’t have waited two or three goddamn hours for this discussion to begin,” you snap.

“You sure can flip personalities,” Dave replies. “But, really, I’d love for you to tone it down a little.”

“Fine! Whatever! I’ll suppress my normal, shitty personality for the time being. If that amuses you, then so be it!”

It is at this point that Dave drops the futile argument and continues, albeit with slightly diminished confidence. “It amuses me to a certain degree.” As per usual, Dave clearly indicates a distinct point at which one topic of conversation ends and another begins. Then, as you’ve come to expect from him, he cuts straight to the point. “Would you still be cool with me if—and this is completely hypothetical—if I could hear?”

Normally, you’d respond with some of your usual backtalk or snappy commentary. Normally, you could confidently follow him across his terse bridge between one topic and the next. This time, however, is far from normal. This time, you’re nothing if not taken aback. You’re caught off guard by his question and, to be honest, you’re uncertain of what you’re supposed to say.

“Karkat?” While one of his hands is busy spelling your name, the other reaches tentatively forwards and grabs your shoulder. With a gentle squeeze and a drawn out breath, he draws you back to reality.

“I— What the hell’re you getting at, Strider?” you eventually manage to respond.

Dave retorts with another sigh as he draws forth a beaten-up booklet from his nearby duffel bag. He hands it to you and withdraws, though his eyes are still keenly trained upon your face.

You, meanwhile, glance at what he’s given you. Through the medical jargon, you manage to ascertain the crux of its contents. You quickly come to the understanding that the pamphlet is promoting an experimental study of a device to treat hearing loss. You gather that (what _they_ claim to be) minor surgery is required—permanent removal of some skin on the scalp and drilling into some part of the skull are your main concerns—and that the device is not intended to be the perfect replacement for natural hearing. Aside from that, you’re also wary of the footnote indicating that extensive (and, as far as you’re concerned, inherently expensive) therapy will be required after the device is started up.

“So... What do you think?” You notice Dave signing out of the corner of your eye, and you set aside the booklet—which you’ve been skimming for half an hour at this point—and breathe a deep, thoughtful sigh.

“Well... I—It’s your choice. It’s not my decision to make... and...” You unconsciously begin to rub the back of your neck, and your teeth dig into the skin of your lower lip. “I don’t see why you think it’s absolutely necessary, anyhow. I mean, you’re perfectly fine the way you are... If not, you’re fucking incredible at hiding it...”

“Yeah,” his reply begins with an air of unspoken dismissiveness, “I guess so. But I’d like to be able to understand you on the same level as you’ve come to understand me. Does—” His hands pause in the middle of this statement and, for a few seconds, they hover in this frozen state, trembling slightly, until he continues. “Does that make sense?”

“It does,” you nod. “It makes sense, but... Aren’t you content as you are? I mean, I don’t want to sound like an insensitive idiot... So...”

Dave returns with a faint hint of a reassuring smile. “No, I get it. And, yes, I’m fine like I am. But I’m also more than willing to change to better understand you. I mean to say... I’d like to know what types of music you like without having to play it in my home, away from you, so that I don’t kill your hearing with how loud I play it at my place... And I’d like to know what your voice sounds like. Little, stupid things like that, you know?”

“Mhm...” You avoid meeting his gaze as you continue. “I understand. But... You do know it might not work like that. Fuck, it might not work at all... And Rose told me about your first experimental treatment fiasco. I mean, I’d rather you not go running into another stupid situation...”

“I’ve researched this shit, though,” Dave responds confidently. “It’s been used successfully before. The only thing this particular thing is testing is a newer, more powerful variation of the device.” He ends his statement with another reassuring smile, though this one is far more concrete than the one preceding it.

“Well... I guess if it’s been tested and whatever... I’m not an expert, though. Shouldn’t you go bother Rose about it or something?” you nervously retort.

“I have. She told me that it was fine with her if I was really willing to do it. She also told me to ask you and listen to your take on it. So, if that’s a yes, then I think I’ll sign up for it,” Dave responds with a shrug.

“It... It’s not really a yes. But, I guess it’s not actually a flat-out refusal, either... So... Fuck... You do what you want, but... If things go awry, don’t say I didn’t warn your stupid ass about it...”

A nervous grin spreads across Dave’s face, and he nods understandingly. “Got it,” he replies simply. “But, if this works out, don’t tell me that I didn’t warn your pretentious butthole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow that was some actual plot development! surprise!


	17. Chapter 17

Honestly, you didn’t think that three weeks without him would be that bad. After all, it was for his benefit. It was done so that he can get all the medical shit he needs to get done out of the way before he officially makes your apartment—which, might you mention, has already been thoroughly redecorated with copious amounts of _his_ shit—his new home.

You didn’t think you’d be as excited to see him as you are now and you were certain that his arrival wouldn’t be as unusual as it is right now. However, as you think more about it, you can’t help but recognise how big this actually is.

First of all, you haven’t seen him in three weeks. You haven’t seen him since he was implanted with the device, nor have you seen him since it was activated. Sure, you’ve texted him and chatted online... But, you haven’t actually had a face-to-face meeting with him. Now is your chance. It’s your first and only chance to see if this fiasco will even amount to anything and, perhaps more importantly, it’s the first time you might be able to speak with him.

What are you to say, though?

You don’t want to be too cliché, nor do you want to make it awkward. Nothing romantic... You decided against that forever ago. Yes, Dave’s your boyfriend but, more importantly, he’s your friend. Even if this now three-month-long relationship works out, there’s no guarantee that you’ll always be his significant other. Therefore, you don’t exactly want the first words he hears from you to be decidedly amorous...

 _Thud_. He haphazardly tosses his shoes onto the nearby doormat. The resultant sound reminds you of his presence and draws your gaze towards him. You note the dark circles under his eyes; yet, at the same time, you recognise the excited half-smile spread across his face. You also acknowledge the grey device which is now visible just behind his left ear, though you should add that it’s hidden rather nicely by his hair.

“Hey...” Dave’s nervous wave refocuses your attentions once again, and you turn towards following his often chaotic and, at times, unpredictable conversations.

“I—” you pause for a moment and remind yourself of some of the things Rose told you yesterday. Firstly, you recall that Rose told you that Dave talking would happen much later—if ever—and that he was still getting used to things. You reiterate to yourself Rose’s insistence upon continuing to back your words with your rather flimsy understanding of sign language. Aside from those few issues, however, you should continue as you normally do, you remind yourself. “You’re early...”

Dave responds with a shrug. “You’re an observant one, aren’t you?”

“I’m a fucking hawk. Observing shit is my specialty,” you reply. “And you can feel free to make yourself comfortable here. I mean, you’ve already taken off your goddamn shoes.”

To this, Dave counters with a smirk. “I make myself comfortable no matter where the hell I am.”

“As I’ve noticed,” you grumble. “Now let me see whatever the fuck it is that they stuck into your thick skull.”

He nods and wanders over to you. Due to his slight height difference, he has to slouch a bit, but it’s not a considerable problem. “I think it looks a bit stupid. At least, it’s out of place,” he muses as you carefully push away the hair which hides the device. “It’s nothing terrible. But I’m not fond of the way it looks. They had models for pretty much every hair colour except for blond. Figures, doesn’t it?”

At this point, you’re only halfway listening to (or watching, you suppose) his rambling commentary. Rather, you’re more interested in the small, grey device you’d seen before. Upon closer inspection, it looks a bit like a steering wheel—a round part with a thick vertical bar bridging the otherwise hollow central space—though an arc near the bottom disrupts the circular shape. A wire juts from this slight bulge and, from what you can tell, it’s connected to a sizeable device which rests behind his left ear. This device is secured in place by what you suppose you could call an over-the-ear hook, at the tip of which is a small but seemingly out-of-place microphone tip.

“So... Exactly how does this work?” you ask without prior thought.

“Beats me,” Dave responds with a shrug. “So far, all it’s done is give me a killer headache and produce voices that sound like they’ve been put through way too many digital filters.”

You nod as if you understand this predicament. “Does it do anything with music?”

“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t,” is the rather disdainful response. “But I don’t enjoy the shit it makes it into very much. Sounds a bit like the horrible lovechild of bad techno music and dubstep. And, before you ask, I know what both of those sound like.”

At this point, you can’t help but snicker at his explanations. “That might just be the music they play on the elevator to hell, Dave. To put in terms which your rather tiny brain can digest: that’s pretty fucking bad. That’s bad enough to warrant suspicion as to how valid your explanation actually is.”

“That was hurtful. But, I know I tend to exaggerate. This time it’s the honest-as-hell truth, though,” he replies with a smirk.

“But it helps more than your old hearing aid, right?” you inquire as you tentatively flick some of his hair back to where it was prior to your examination.

“Honestly, I rarely replaced the batteries in that shit. So, yeah, it helps more. But it’s also a lot stronger,” he explains patiently. “It’s not exactly what I expected it to be, but it sure as hell isn’t beneath my expectations. The main problem is me, actually.”

“What do you mean by that?” As you make this inquiry, you take a brief trip to the kitchen at the other end of the room. You prepare yourself a glass of ice water and pour Dave some soda prior to returning to the sofa which he managed to settle into while you were occupied.

“Thanks.” He puts the fingers of his flattened left hand to his lips for a brief moment prior to moving his hand outwards—away from his lips and slightly downwards—to reveal a sincere smile. He takes a sip, sloshes it about in his mouth for no particular reason, and sets the glass on the side table to his right before continuing. “What was the question again?”

“I swear, Dave... You’re the most forgetful piece of shit I’ve ever had the displeasure of becoming acquainted with... You were discussing something about you being the problem and not some other thing. Something which, might I say, you never actually specified,” you snicker.

“Well, I like to think that you’re intelligent enough to know what I was referencing,” Dave responds, rolling his eyes. “But, what I meant was that the main issue is that I can’t really understand a lot of spoken language at this point. Make enough sense, idiot?”

“I suppose so.” You take a moment to indulge in a bit of the ice water you’d prepared for yourself and continue. “So, that means that shit’s going to hit the fan that’s more in the area of re-teaching you verbal English, right?”

“Pretty much.”

Again, you nod as if you can easily understand how he feels. Of course, both of you know that this is one of those things that you can’t actually relate to. Still, you feel that it’s nice to at least make him aware of the fact that you would sympathise with him if you could properly do so. “Well, if that’s the only problem we’ll have, then I’ll be impressed. Knowing experimental devices, though, something else might just go wrong. And I don’t mean that to shit on your dinky little parade or anything. I just want to be reasonable.”

“I understand. And I know something will probably go wrong in the process, but it’s working fairly well now. Hopefully, it’ll be awhile before shit hits the fan,” Dave responds with a shrug.

“Hopefully,” you grumble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot development! Woooo!


	18. Chapter 18

A wad of balled up paper rolls down from the top of the newspaper you’re reading and lands in your lap. It draws your gaze upwards, to a rather confused-looking Dave, and prompts you to (perhaps a bit reluctantly) realign the crosshairs of your attention onto your apparently befuddled boyfriend.

“What do you want?” you grumble. “We’ve already done that weird speaking shit for the day. And I’ve heard enough counting from a generic, computerised female voice to last me twenty goddamn lifetimes.”

Dave smirks at your reaction. “Calm down,” he signs in response. (Rose mentioned that it’d likely be awhile before he actually tried talking...) “I just wanted to ask a few questions.”

“Ugh. Fuck. That means we’re starting to play twenty motherfucking questions,” you reply harshly, though you offer a quick flash of a smile to make sure that he’s aware of the fact that you’re joking. “So, what is it? More screwy noises? Personal problems that I will neither solve nor acknowledge the existence thereof? A game of Monopoly that I will abso-fucking-lutely not play with you?”

“First one,” Dave snickers.

“Great. At least that one should be easy to figure out,” you reply as you fold up the newspaper and toss it onto the dent-riddled coffee table across from your armchair. “Sound. Location. Volume.”

“Grinding noise. ...No, not like that, you pervert. Southeast. Moderate,” he rapidly retorts.

At this point, you take a moment to think about the situation. By now, Dave’s been at your place for three days. You’ve gotten used to him asking you what certain sounds were—hence the sound, location, volume routine—and you’ve identified at least thirty already. So far, they’ve been pretty easy ones to give names to—the chirping of birds, the hum of the air conditioner, or the disgusting _splurch_ -ing of your neighbour’s constantly backed-up plumbing. This one, however, is more difficult to pinpoint.

After all, a scraping noise could come from a variety of things. For instance: your other neighbour’s dishwasher makes such a sound whenever it’s turned on. (You’ve complained about this many times, but they’ve yet to do anything to fix it.) However, your fridge also makes that noise from time to time. Both of those things are to the east, though, so it’s obviously not them...

No, wait. You’ve got it.

“The guys two places down have an elevator. It’s really shitty and it groans like a spoiled, bratty child in an expensive candy store whenever they use it,” you respond. “Anything else?”

“Not really,” Dave shrugs.

“Hm? That’s a fucking miracle. Dave Strider is finally out of questions!” You emphasise your point with a skeptical sigh. “I know you’ve got more to say, you little shit. I can practically smell it. And it smells rancid, too.”

“Well, your house smells like butts, so I guess we’re even,” he returns. “But, yes, I have some more shit to say. Your computer is basically screeching. I’m pretty sure it’s about to kick the bucket. It’s about to push up some digital daisies, if you know what I mean.”

“Great. I’ll put that on the list of ‘things Dave needs that I can’t afford’. What’s your next matter of business, then?”

To this, Dave responds with a snicker. “We’re being a bit snippy today, aren’t we? Well, I guess it’s nothing new. You’re always being a smartass. Next? Oh, yeah. Can I have the bottom bunk?”

“Why? I rather like the bottom bunk. And I’d rather not sleep on that mattress up top. I mean, _you’ve_ slept on it,” you counter with an air of obviously false pomposity. “For all I know, I could catch your stupidity.”

Your reply is met with a snort of laughter. “Yes, of course,” Dave rolls his eyes as he continues, “And I’ll probably come down with a serious case of rude asshole disease. But, really, the air conditioning’s too loud up there.”

“The... Air... What?” you sputter. “I don’t even hear that. What the—”

“Hey, it’s not my fault this thing picks up on weird shit. I mean, shit, someone in the house on the left was farting like they’d had ten pounds of beans last night. But I didn’t complain about that, now, did I?”

“You just did...”

“Only because I needed to make a point.” As if to reinforce this idiotic claim, Dave folds his arms rather confidently across his chest. A smirk spread across his face completes the look and the implied statement of “does it look like I actually care?”

Thus, you respond with a roll of your eyes and a dismissive shrug. “Fine. You can have the bottom bunk. Now, can I finish reading the goddamn news already?”

“There’s never any good news. But, whatever, go ahead,” Dave cackles as he tosses you your paper. “I’ll be doing actually interesting things. Like playing with the stray dogs that hang out around here.”

“Great! Have fun getting rabies!” you reply as you re-immerse yourself in the news you had been enjoying prior to your boyfriend’s interruption.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, hey. fluff. look at this fluff. look at this unnecessary fluff. also, for those of you wondering when they hooked up from before, i found where i kind of smacked the two together with really cheap glue [in chapter twelve](http://archiveofourown.org/works/852248/chapters/1713794) so i might go back and give them a proper reunion but for now that will work, right? yes. good.


	19. Chapter 19

Three days. It’s been three days since you last saw a hint of anything other than disinterested brooding from Dave. Three days—seventy-two hours—since you’ve heard that familiar laugh or seen that unnaturally uplifting grin. Three days—four-thousand three-hundred twenty minutes—since you’ve actually enjoyed being around him or even coaxed a conversation out of him… And, to be completely honest, it’s enough to make you want to throw yourself into the middle of a four-way intersection. It’s eating away at your happiness just as much as it is his.

Now, that’s bad enough; but, of course, that’s not it. There’s never a bottom line when it comes to things that upset you, is there? That’s not what hurts the most. No, what pains you the most is the fact that you know why he’s acting like this. You _know_ it’s because he’s frustrated; you are, too. But, knowing why it’s happening isn’t enough. Knowing the reason doesn’t fix it—kind of like how knowing what a Rubik’s cube looked like before you fucked it up doesn’t help you solve it…

To make matters worse, you’ve been told by countless people—the doctors, nurses, therapists, and even Rose—to just leave him alone. Let him simmer down and vent out his frustrations without you. But, somehow, that doesn’t sit well with you. It doesn’t feel right. In fact, it feels wrong—as if you’re letting him down and abandoning him… Still, you’ve given it a go. You’ve tried to give him his space for three days; it just hasn’t worked out. Because, somehow, seeing him every day at breakfast and dinner—looking at him and noticing how run-down and tired he looks—is enough for you to reconsider your decisions.

Still, just wanting to fix it doesn’t fix it—just like how just knowing what it is won’t fix it. What you need to know—what you can’t figure out—is how to fix it. After all, you’re not a comedy genius. You’re not a therapist. You don’t know anything about the inner workings of the human mind. Rose does. Not you. You just know how to degrade people without intending to do so…

You sigh and drop into your preferred armchair. You allow your eyes to wander around the room. You let your mind wander freely.

You observe the trinkets you’ve collected on your shitty, electric fireplace’s ugly little mantle. Above the surface hangs the portrait Dave created of you. Below the canvas is a cluster of pictures from various points in your life. There’s your high school graduation photo… Here’s a photo of you and your friend, Terezi (who, much like Sollux, ended up moving far out of your budget’s travelling boundaries)… They’re stupid pictures, really—old souvenirs of old friends you’ll likely never see again and people you’ve lost. And the junk scattered around those images is equally foolish. It’s just an assortment of idiotic knickknacks with far too much sentimental value. You’ve got that box of chalk that Terezi gave you ages ago—a box which you’ve actually never opened. And then there’s Sollux’s old video game controller. And over there is John’s old magic wand…

_Wait…!_

The thoughts flooding through your mind come to a screeching halt. The miscellaneous thought clutter and random reflections all turn inwards, towards one thing—John.

John always knew how to cheer you up. He knew how to cheer anyone up. Fuck, he could make one of those ridiculous sad clowns happy. Surely, he’d know what to do now. Of course, he’s dead, so he can’t tell you what to do—but you can at least take a page from his book…

What page, exactly? Well, the one in which he claimed that “magic tricks cheer up practically anyone who doesn’t have a stick shoved up their butt”. That page.

With this decided, you stumble to your feet and throw open the door to your cramped storage closet. It’s intended to be used as a pantry, though you never paid heed to that suggestion. Instead, you packed it to the point of explosion with all the junk you’re too damned sentimental about to throw away.

_Where was it?_

You begin to shove aside box after box. Your eyes dart from one label to the next—Christmas shit, Schoolwork, Photo albums, Old toys, Shitty movies. Nothing. You push aside another formidable tower of cardboard cubes. Aquarium equipment… Old cooking supplies… Books…

Then, you see it—a tan Rubbermaid box, roughly the size of a computer processor unit, with a lid held together by tape and prayers. Its sides are covered in dust and dirt, though its label is still fairly legible. “John’s stuff.” You let forth a triumphant huff and pry the relatively small container from its place atop a Christmas tree box. You set it aside for a moment and put back the boxes you’d previously moved before returning to examine it.

You sit beside the container for a moment and allow yourself to get over the fact that the last time you even touched this box was when you and your father moved into this shoddy apartment. You take a deep breath and open it then, before you can give yourself any more time to dwell upon the unpleasant facts.

As you expected, much of the its contents have gathered a good deal of dust. A few dead spiders are scattered about within the box, though you don’t mind those much. What you’re more concerned about is a beat-up deck of cards and and a plastic bag filled with magic supplies. With the utmost care, you remove these objects. At the same time, you try your very best to avoid disturbing the surrounding objects.

Once you’ve removed these items, you gingerly replace the top and return the box to its rightful spot. Then, you set yourself to work…

 

* * *

 

It takes you a good five hours of practice before you’re even somewhat confident in your rusty magic skills and, even then, you’re pretty certain that you’ll fuck it up somehow; but, you have to try. If not now, then when…?

 _Dingdingding_. The egg timer goes off, prompting you to remove the lasagna you’ve prepared from the oven. You set it aside, prepare two servings—one set upon a red plate, the other upon grey—prior to alerting Dave. (You do this after you set the plates on the table. As per usual, you greet him by doing as the doctors recommended—providing him with a bit of good, cacophonous stimulus. In this case, it comes in the form of a firm set of kicks against the bedroom door. You follow this up with a grumbled, “Food’s ready, you moody little shit!”)

Following this, you know that it will take about a minute and a half for Dave to actually show up at the table. Thus, you take this time to prepare yourself. You check to make sure that you’ve got all the stupid little tricks that John showed you set up and ready to go. Magician’s tape? Check. Cloths? Hell yeah. That stupid plastic stick that John called a ‘wand’ for backup? Done.

And not a moment too soon, for Dave enters just as you finish checking your supplies. As you expected, he’s just as run-down as he has been the past few days. His eyes are underscored by dark shadows, and his hair is in a state of unfortunate disarray. Both his shirt and his pants happen to be wrinkled, though you’d expect that from clothes that have been worn for three days straight.

All in all, his appearance sets you back a bit by putting a damper on your mood, though you quickly rebound by reassuring yourself that this idiotic children’s play will cheer him up to some degree. (After all, you don’t need him to be elated. You just want him to stop looking like you murdered his new puppy and set fire to his family members.)

“Dinner?” he signs sloppily with one hand while the other tries to smooth his hair down to hide the device behind his left ear.

“Lasagna,” you respond shortly. “Yes, I know it’s not your favourite, but we’re out of burgers and hotdogs, so don’t go off whining like a goddamn toddler.”

“Whatever,” he punctuates this statement with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s not like I care any more.”

“Of course not,” you sigh. Though you responded just as dismissively as Dave had, you happen to be paying far more attention to him than he was to you. You’re watching to make sure that he’s looking and, once you’re certain that he is, you put the plan into motion. You open by reaching into your sleeve, catching onto a very small bit of fabric hidden within it, and pulling. This results in the illusion of you producing your napkin from thin air and, as you expected, manages to catch Dave’s attention.

“Are you really trying to entertain me with stupid tricks?” he inquires with a roll of his eyes. “This is just pathetic.”

“Well,” you respond with a shrug, “You’ve been acting pretty pathetic recently.” As you speak, you throw in another trick. You take advantage of the fact that Dave is more distracted than a dog watching a squirrel and discretely whip from your pocket two things—a second cloth, which you hide in your free hand, and a lighter. Using the cloth you produced from your sleeve, you redirect Dave’s attention. Then, you set it on fire. You put it out by dunking the now-charred remains in your glass of water. (You didn’t plan on drinking it, anyhow.) “I mean, you’ve been moping around in a manner reminiscent of some sort of juvenile temper tantrum.”

“But… The napkin…” Dave interjects confusedly.

“What?” you grumble as you pull the second cloth from where it is hidden in your other hand. “It’s right here.”

At this point, you see a glimmer of success. A brief hint of a skeptical smile. This is replaced quickly, however, with his former expression of disinterest. “That’s a pretty stupid trick, you know. I’m not ten.”

“You sure do act like it, though,” you reply. At the same time, you roll the napkin up, firmly grasp both ends of the resultant roll, and begin to spin it about.

“I do not!” is Dave’s shoddy rebuttal.

“Whatever you say, drama king.” At this point, you release the left-hand end of the napkin. This allows for it to dangle from your right hand—an action which happens to reveal the bright red cloth you’d hidden within the single cloth, which is actually a cleverly bound pair of white napkins. It’s a convoluted process, yes, and a pain to set up; but, it’s one of John’s original crap-tastic tricks, so you at least feel as if you’re paying homage to him. (That being said, it doesn’t make you feel any less stupid or childish.)

“Hm…” Another smile plays at the edges of Dave’s lips. At this point, you can tell he’s forcing himself to retain his air of dispassion. “That was a bit better. Not much better, though… You’re still a shitty magician.”

“I’ll tell you the story behind that later,” you shrug. “Now, if you don’t mind…” You lure Dave’s attention away from the real action with this comment and use the brief aberration to drop a balled-up piece of paper from its spot up your sleeve, into your readied palm. You conceal this page until you drop the red cloth over top of your fist. (For, at this point, you have discarded the two halves of the white cloth.) Then, you transfer it into the square of fabric. Once this has been done, you ball up the napkin and throw it at Dave. “…I’d like for you to cheer the fuck up.”

“And this is supposed to help?” he retorts, his eyes locked firmly and skeptically upon the wad of now-wrinkled fabric.

“Open it up, you dim-witted little shit.”

He sighs, rolls his eyes, and does as you commanded. As you expected, he isn’t exactly surprised by the page which falls into his hand. Once he unfurls it, however, he finally gives you the reaction you’ve been hoping for.

He laughs. For the first time in what feels like forever, he lets loose a genuine laugh.

You revel in the sound and, with Dave distracted once again, seize the opportunity to reclaim the page for later use. As you do so, you allow yourself the luxury of a satisfied grin.

You did it, after all. At the very least, you’ve cheered him up for now. You’ve made today a bit brighter for him, and that’s all that matters right now…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what was on the paper? the world may never know. because even i don't know.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! SURPRISE! IT'S SUDDEN FLUFF!

Twelve months. One year. For one whole year, Dave Strider will be one of fuck-knows-how many lab rats testing out some new hearing aid-type thing. So far, two of these months have passed. Ten months to go…

“Dave!” you call, setting the table for breakfast. “Breakfast’s ready!”

Boom. A door slams against the wall, propelled by the eager forward charge of your boyfriend, Dave. He stops in front of the table, examines the food, and raises a blond brow. “Waffles again?” he signs cockily. “Haven’t we had waffles for the past two weeks?”

“Fuck off,” you snicker in reply as you drop Dave’s plate in front of him. You sigh, and slather at least five heart attacks’ worth of butter onto his waffle prior to drowning it in enough syrup to flood Alaska. “And, maybe if you didn’t put so much goddamn butter on your waffle, we would have money to afford something that isn’t fucking waffles. Oh my fucking god. Isn’t that just a fantastic idea!?”

“No.” Dave smirks, dips his fork into his breakfast’s syrup, and flicks some of the sticky excess onto your shirt. He laughs. “Butter’s the shit, dude. You’ve got to have butter.”

“I’ll be waiting for you to say that in twenty more years, when your metabolism slows down and you die from all the dried dairy product that’s clogged up your arteries.” You fold your arms across your chest after saying this and offer him a confident smirk of your own.

“Suit yourself,” Dave snickers, upping the amount of syrup on his meal from enough to drown Alaska to enough to smother the entirety of Canada to death. “But don’t keep complaining about how bland your waffles are compared to mine, Sir Health fanatic.”

“I’m not a health fanatic!” you respond defensively, though you know it’s a lie. You’re a bit of one, partially due to John’s influence. But, you wouldn’t go so far as to say fanatic. No, fanatics are the types that shit their pants with fear whenever something that isn’t skim milk is mentioned. You are not one of those people.

“Of course not,” Dave replies with a roll of his eyes. “And I don’t like apple juice. Wait. Were we saying blatant lies? I thought that’s what we were doing.”

“No, you fucking idiot, I was trying to have a civilised conversation with you!”

“Oh… Whoops.”

At this point, you can’t help but drop your serious act. You let forth a loud laugh and make a halfhearted attempt to lightly punch him and he easily dodges. “I’ll take that ‘whoops’ and shove it up your goddamn ass, you moron.”

“If that’s in reference to what I think it is, that sounds pretty hot,” he responds with a wink.

“That’s it!” you snicker, throwing your hands into the air in a show of defeat, “I am so fucking done with you! I’m going to work now!”

“That’s not fair!”

“Neither is unexpected innuendo!” you cackle as you step over the threshold and depart from your apartment.


	21. Chapter 21

“Karkat…?”

You let forth a stifled moan, roll over, and unconsciously bat at the air in the your general vicinity. “Fuoff,” you slur in sleepy confusion.

“Karkat…?” The voice repeats itself—louder, clearer.

“Fufoff,” you, again, murmur semi-coherently. You once more attempt to shoo away the presence, though you ultimately fail.

“Karkat…”

Finally, it registers with you that there are only two people in the entire apartment. One person is, of course, yourself; the other is Dave. Thus, unless someone—by some unlikely chance—had broken into the apartment, that meant that…

“FUCK!” You sit upright with a bit more force and speed than initially intended. The bed gives a bit beneath you, bounces upwards slightly, and sends the top of your head smashing into one of the upper bunk’s mattress support beams. “Fucking fuckniblets!” you grumble, rubbing your sore scalp as you clumsily clamber over your pillow to turn on the bedside light.

 _Click_. A gently pulsating halogen glow illuminates the room and casts across a familiar, pale face an array of angular shadows. His lips move, the shadows dancing athwart on the side of his face facing away from the lamp.

“Karkat?” he mumbles, raising a brow.

“Dave—?” you attempt to respond, only to find yourself frozen after speaking only his name. You know you heard it—that soft, Texan-accented voice which has always been so elusive. You know you heard him. You take a deep breath, open your mouth, and try once more to communicate coherently. “Dave—?”

The deft, instinctive movement of his hands cuts you off. His downcast gaze manages to overpower your need to hear him speak again. “I said it right, right?” he signs, a sheepish grin spread across his face. “I mean… I think I did. I don’t know… “

At this point, you grab his wrists and offer your best attempt at a comforting grin. “Yeah, Dave,” you say, “You did. You fucking did. It’s four in the goddamn morning, you little shit, but you said it right.”

Dave returns with a nervous laugh. He pulls himself free of your grip and shoves his hands into his pockets for a moment—an action he performs only when in thought or distress, according to your observations—as he directs his gaze away from your once again. He seems to focus on a nearby dent in your apartment’s plaster wall.

And you, by instinct, put your index finger below his chin. You gently move his head so that he finds himself looking at you once more and, then, you sigh. “What’s gnawing at your idiotic innards, Dave? And I swear to God, if you say ‘Nothing’ like you usually do, I will pour a beautiful, cascading stream of lava down your goddamn windpipe.”

Dave replies to this by gently pushing your hand away. He, too, sighs. After a moment or so, he removes his hands from his pockets and states his confident retort. He holds his hand in an “O” shape, moves it forwards, and smoothly shifts into a loose, slightly downward-facing “five” hand signal. “Nothing.”

“You do realise,” you begin, folding your arms across your chest in a fruitless attempt to prove a point which even you’re unsure of. “That I can see through that shitty lie like it’s freshly polished glass, right?”

“And?” is Dave’s simple response.

“And…” For a moment, you remain frozen—your mouth slightly open, poised to speak. But, you dash your former thoughts in your conversational recovery. You come to the conclusion that Dave isn’t likely to give up any secrets tonight—if ever—and, thus, return his commentary with a slightly irked suspiration. “Fine,” you growl, “I’ll let it go. Whatever.” With this, you throw your hands in the air to dramatically demonstrate your apparent frustration.

This action—the throwing of your hands into the air, that is—seems to amuse Dave, though, as a faint hint of a smirk appears on his pale face. He raises a brow, rolls his eyes, and signs, “You’d probably be great with sock puppets.”

“Unless that’s some sort of freakish masturbation joke, then I suppose I should say ‘Thanks’?” you reply bewilderedly.

“It’s not a masturbation joke, you perverted little shit.” Dave snickers and punches you lightly on the shoulder. A contented smile replaces the faint smirk on his face as he places his hand against your chest and shoves you back onto the bed. “Now, go back to sleep.”

You reply with a smile of your own and nod, rolling onto your side so that your back faces Dave. “Fine,” you mutter as he settles beside you once more. You wait a moment prior to lazily stretching your arm towards the bedside light.

 _Click_. The room is cast back into an oddly peaceful darkness. The only illumination comes from the two squares which appear on the floor—splotches of light cast by the moon as it shines through your window. A pale arm finds its way around your body; a hand presses gently against your stomach, gently pulling you closer to the warm body to which your back faces.

“Karkat?” inquires the elusive Texan-accented voice.

“Hm?” you respond, nodding slightly to make sure your message is fully understood.

A strange silence hangs in the air for a moment before the answer finally comes in the form of a hushed whisper. “You’re okay,” is the vocal response, whose monotone is broken only by a hint of suppressed snicker.

“Yeah?” you say as you gently elbow Dave in the stomach and roll over to face him. “I guess you are, too, you conceited ass.”

At this comment, Dave quietly chuckles. He shrugs, administers to you a gentle kiss, and sighs. “Great to know,” he signs prior to falling asleep.


	22. Intermission 2

**Your name is David Strider—or, maybe, it’s David Vantas?** You don’t know, nor do you actually care enough to flip so much as one half of a shit about the matter.

Today just so happens to be one of those odd days when Karkat works two shifts and doesn’t return home until around ten in the evening. Thus, you attempted to contact Rose and coerce her into going to the state fair with you. Unfortunately, she was terribly hungover and unable to attend. So, by this sequence of events, you find yourself sitting on a rather uncomfortable wooden bench, watching as the world seems to pass you by. You catch glimpses of all sorts of people as they whisk past you—there, you see a tall man wearing idiotic neon green; there’s a woman dressed in a nice black dress, yet on her face she wears the most depressing of frowns; and, so on.

A low buzz hums consistently—gratingly—in your ear. Electronically distorted voices join together, forming a singular, massive clusterfuck of cacophonous chirps and whines and beeps. You sigh, massage your temples, and sink your teeth into a poorly seasoned strip of unevenly breaded fried chicken.

Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea…

You rise to your feet, cast aside the unpalatable poultry, and wander off. You meander through the alleyways between cluttered food stands and weave your way in and out of the crowd until something catches your eye—one of those stupid scam games. This time, it’s a shooting stall. You watch for a moment to figure out the rules. It seems to you that participants shot water guns at small targets in order to raise their prize to the top before the clock or another competitor beat them.

Interesting and easy enough, you figure. You dig through your pockets and pull forth your scant spending money—twenty dollars. Then, you glance at the sign above the booth. Five dollars per game. Damn. Oh, well… There’s nothing else worth spending your money on—save, perhaps, another disgusting chicken strip—and the oversized, red, stuffed crocodile perched atop the leftmost platform seems to be the perfect prize. You shrug, wander up to the aforementioned station, and place your money on the counter.

“How many games?” inquires the woman tending to the stall.

You frown, chew your lip; and, as you have been doing quite a lot today, you shrug. You motion with your left hand—raising a single finger for a single game. One round’s enough to win this, after all. Right?

“Thank you,” the woman responds as she hands you your fifteen dollars’ change.

Without really giving much more thought to the situation, you nod gratefully. You then wait at your station until—about two minutes later—the other competitors arrive to fill in the rest of the game’s slots. They take their positions and you await the signal. Before you can register much of anything, however, a red light flashes above you. The stuffed dog resting on the platform to your right is removed, handed to a giddy preteen, and replaced with another, identical toy.

You frown, glance at the woman in charge, and sigh as you drop another five dollar bill on the counter.

She accepts the payment, activates your station, and begins to converse with you.

You, however, don’t manage to catch what she’s saying above the din of activity which surrounds you. “I… Sorry… What?” you murmur, diverting your gaze towards the prize for which you’re playing this stupid game. “I…” You pause, consider that your verbal skills have yet to reach a level at which you’re comfortable with holding conversations with strangers, and breathe a frustrated grouse. “Dammit.”

“You do know the game started, right? Last time, the game had started and you hadn’t started shooting.” In what you know is an attempt to better communicate with you, the woman accompanies her words with halfhearted mimed actions. She sprays water from an invisible gun in front of her and offers you a well-meaning smile. Overall, it’s a bit condescending; but, you know it’s done with the best of intentions.

“No…” you reply quietly.

“That’s okay, then,” the woman retorts as she accepts money from the next round of customers. “We’ll be starting soon.”

To this statement, you reply with a nod. You aim your sights on the small bullseye beneath the red crocodile and…

No! Fuck!

The red light flashes again. You sigh, drop another five dollars, and prepare for the next game. By now, the stall overseer seems to have lost interest in conversing with you—something which you take solace in—and is busy mulling around with the visible stock of prize toys.

Within minutes, the stall refills. The game is begun and…

Shit!

You dig through your pockets, drop another five dollars, and prepare yourself. Before you can even finish re-aiming your water gun, however, the red light flashes once more.

A disappointed breath escapes you as you’re pushed aside by an eager teenager on a date. You shove your hands into your pockets, scuff the toe of your shoe gently against the stall’s wooden base, and wander off. Before you can get very far, however, you’re approached by a familiar face.

“Karkat?” you mumble in bewildered excitement.

“Yeah,” he responds in sign—a notion which makes it clear that he’s here for you rather than the attractions—and smirks. “I heard you were going to this dump for the day, and I decided to duck out of my shitty job early to make sure you don’t wind up slipping on some drunken clown’s putrid piss puddle or dying in some other freakishly idiotic way.”

At this point, Karkat stops. He produces from behind his back the crocodile you’d been aiming for and shoves it into your arms. His playfully pretentious smirk grows larger. “I’ve been trying to find you for an hour, by the way. Saw this on the way and thought you might like it. So I trampled some stupid, horny, acne-ridden teenager and his fairly decent date to win it for you. Enjoy it.”

By now, you can’t suppress your laughter. You break into a fit of inordinately enthusiastic chuckling and continue for about two minutes. Once you’ve calmed down, you explain—with as straight of a face as you possibly can—the situation, “I’ve been trying to win that for the past half an hour. I spent all my money on it. You couldn’t have fucking shown up before that!?”

“You’re fucking shitting me,” Karkat responds, his shoulders shaking with his own fit of laughter. “Because I only had five dollars to begin with.”

“Great,” you sign in reply, “So now we’re both broke because of some stupid alligator.”

“Actually, you ignorant swine, it’s a fucking crocodile,” points out a smug-looking Karkat.

“Whatever,” you chuckle. “Let’s just go home.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. This place is too goddamn loud.”

You snicker at this comment and roll your eyes as you put your hand on Karkat’s shoulder. “Tell me about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear i never meant to make the fic this long. it's ending soon, though, so bare with me.


	23. Chapter 23

“Karkat?”

**Once again, you are Karkat Vantas and, as far as you know, your name is one of the few things he’s bothered to learn to say perfectly no matter what mood he’s in. It’s the only word he says that tells you his mood—and, right now, judging by the hesitant pause following it and the slight wavering of his voice, he happens to be nervous.**

“Yeah?” you reply, glancing at your boyfriend from over the top of your book.

“Can we talk?” he signs—something you’ve become used to and familiar with due to his own comfort in the system.

“Maybe,” you sigh as you set aside your book and slide down to make more room on the sofa. “About what?”

Dave frowns. He chews his lip thoughtfully and retrieves his half-finished can of soda prior to taking the spot you’d made for him moment earlier. In three sips, he downs the rest of his beverage and sets the emptied aluminum can atop the glass side table to his right. “They said that I could keep this thing…” Here, he pauses. He pushes his hair back a bit to reveal a familiar grey device before continuing. “If I wanted to, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “I don’t see why we’re having this conversation, you twit. You’ve just answered your own fucking question…”

He raises his hand to stop you. “Shut up for five minutes, okay, Karkat? I’d actually like to have a serious conversation with you… For once in ten thousand goddamn blue moons.”

“Fine, then,” you respond, “Go for it.”

“Okay…” Dave frowns. He takes a deep breath and avoids meeting your gaze as he continues. “What if I give it back?”

“That’s fine by me, Dave,” you shrug, “It’s your choice. I’m not standing behind you with a fucking executioner’s axe forcing you to do anything, now, am I?” (You had seen this coming, honestly. You’d noted how unhappy he seemed to be as time wore on and, honestly, you are of the firm belief that he got what he wanted to get from it. You’d made this decision—or, rather, you handed the decision to him—long ago.)

“No…” His brows furrow in a show of conflicted emotion and from his slightly parted lips comes a barely audible utterance of a single, four-letter profanity. “But that means I’ll probably forget everything you’ve taught me.”

“Everything that I’ve taught you?” you reply with a laugh. “Hey, shit-for-brains, you taught yourself all this. If you don’t want to keep going with this thing, don’t.”

At this point, a wide grin spreads across Dave’s face. His gaze, however, remains locked on the ground. “Thanks, Karkat…”

“Don’t mention it,” you reply with a small smile. “And what the hell are you thanking me for? I didn’t do fucking anything. I literally handed off a decision that was yours in the first place back into your clumsy hands.”

“True,” Dave shrugs. “But, you’ve learned so goddamn much for me…” He pauses and, finally, meets your gaze. His grin falters a bit as he continues. “And you’ve stuck with me through all this shit… I mean, dammit, dude, you make me feel like I don’t do damned near anything, you know?”

For a moment, you find yourself taken aback by his statement. You recover quickly, however, and reply sharply, “That’s fucking ridiculous! That’s a pile of steaming, feculent bullshit! You’ve done a lot, Dave. Really, you have. I mean, who else on this watery, planetary mass called ‘Earth’ could possibly reinforce my hatred of roller coasters to such a prolific degree as you? Or, who else can make me laugh when I’m in the middle of one of my loud shouting sprees?”

Dave smirks.

You, meanwhile, immediately continue, “Oh God fucking dammit. Now I went and reinflated that massive superego of yours, didn’t I? Well that’s just fucking amazing. This is like inflating a lifeboat in a room ten times too small for it to properly expand without crushing me to death in the process. I suppose I can’t retract these idiotic statements of mine, now, can I?”

“Nope.” Dave snickers and rolls his eyes. “Actually, you could always repeat them so I can get them on film…”

“Fuck no!” you laugh, “That’s an even worse idea! Then you can just go gallivanting about with your phone and re-stuff your obese ego whenever you fucking please! That’s a terrible, terrible idea!”

“Yeah?” Dave responds before administering to you an unexpected kiss on your cheek. “Well, as much as I may hate to admit it at times, dating you probably wasn’t as terrible of an idea as that.”

“That was the sappiest, most vomit-inducing thing you’ve ever said to me, Strider,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “But, I guess dating you wasn’t such a shitty idea, either.” Having said this, you return his peck of a kiss with what you deem to be a slightly more affectionate one. Then, you speak up once more. “Now, leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m reading, like a fucking intelligent person?” you say, your voice filled with faux anger.

“Oh dear!” Dave responds in jestful fear. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Sir Vantas of Shitty Personality.” He steps away, swipes up one of the swords resting upon the sword rack near the kitchen entryway, and uses the blunted weapon as an accessory to his stereotypically chivalrous bow. “I shall depart immediately!”

“Whatever,” you say insincerely. “Go do whatever idiotic things you enjoy doing, you shitty little dork.”

“As Sir Vantas commands,” Dave retorts with an air of regality, departing with a final bow and a wide grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm totally not spamming updates. what? no. this was totally planned. totes.


	24. Epilogue

You find yourself standing in an overgrown, forgotten area of town. Your bags—which contain all of the possessions that you and Dave hadn’t already loaded onto the moving vans—are set in a small pile, leaning against the crumbling southern wall of a decrepit, abandoned home. Your sword is drawn and primed, its blunt tip aimed at the chest of the blond standing several feet away from you. His sword is positioned in a likewise fashion.

Both you and him are drenched in sweat. Yet, both of you are smiling. And, nearby, leaning against the same wall which supports your pile of bags is a pair of women—one, Rose; the other, Kanaya.

“You’re both idiots,” says Rose as she runs her fingers through her short blonde hair. (Her comment ends the sparring session and prompts the birth of a conversation.)

“But they’re _our_ idiots,” points out Kanaya as she fiddles about with a tube of her signature jade lipstick.

“So, what…” continues Rose, “You’re both moving five hours away from us?”

“You’re leaving me here with this moron!?” Kanaya replies, motioning towards her partner in a dramatic show of joking exasperation.

“Rose, we’re thirty-five now,” you snicker, “I think we can take care of ourselves. Right, Dave?”

The blond standing across from you nods and adds some animated sign language to further bolster your statement. “Thirty- _six_ , actually.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, you nitwit! Did I fucking ask you!?” you laugh, sheathing your weapon before approaching your boyfriend—no, wait, your husband—and playfully shoving him back a bit. “But, my point still stands. And, Kanaya, I’ve survived this long with the other half of this family. So, if you ever need anyone to complain to, call me.”

A grin spreads across Dave’s face at this point. “I’d offer to let you call me,” he adds, “But I’m not that great with phones.”

“Stop being such a smartass, Dave,” Rose sighs, though the smile on her face seems to indicate that she is less annoyed than her tone of voice lets on.

“I’ll stop being a smartass once you name your kid after me,” your husband snickers.

“Oh fuck no!” you and Kanaya simultaneously exclaim.

“We only need one Dave Strider in this world,” you go on to say.

“True,” Dave grins and throws his arm over your shoulder. He pulls you close to him and musses your hair. “Luckily for you, Karkat, you’ve got the one and only.”

“I’m not sure if I’d call that ‘lucky’, per say…” Rose chuckles.

“Yeah?” Dave counters, “Did I ask you, Rose?”

“Well, it wasn’t a question,” she laughs. “So, Dave, try not to get yourself into too much shit.”

“And don’t go knitting yourself into any corners,” Dave replies as he grabs two of the four bags stacked against the wall. “I’ll be sure to keep in touch, though. Not with you, Rose. With Kanaya. She’s a hell of a lot nicer than you.” Despite the commentary, Dave and Rose share one final embrace before he crams the bags into your car’s backseat and takes his spot in the passenger’s seat.

“Rose, I assume you’ll be calling me soon. So I’ll save the farewells for later. Maybe when you’re about to kick the bucket or something. Kanaya, I probably won’t hear from you so much, seeing as you’re always so goddamn busy having a social life,” you snicker as you approach your long-time friend and pull her into one final, platonic embrace before cramming the final two bags into the boot of your car and departing from your hometown.

“Both of you, try not to fuck things up around here too much without us, okay?” you roll down the window to call this final message out to the pair. Then, both you and Dave watch as their figures shrink in your rearview mirror. The distance between you and them increases and, eventually, they disappear from view altogether. By this point, though, you’ve already found your way onto the main road and you, Dave, and your shitty little car are bumbling down the road to the new house which you and Dave have managed to save up for. By then, Dave has already fallen asleep and you’re already lost in thought.

What is it that you’re thinking of? Well, quite simply, you’re thinking of who you are…

Your name is Karkat Vantas. You’re not exactly a fairy tale hero; but, you’re a hero of sorts—you’re Dave’s hero and, likewise, he’s yours. You may not be the debonair cavalryman; but, you’re the long-time partner of a practicing swordsman (as well as an avid practitioner of the sport, yourself). Sure, you’re not perfect and, honestly, neither is he. But, when you think about it, that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you have him, that he has you, and that everything is as close to perfect as it possibly can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY FINISHED. PRAISE THE MIGHTY GLOW CLOUD! I AM FINISHED! sorry if this was a bummer ending in any way, shape or form. thanks for your support (yes, you, and everyone) throughout the writing of this fic. i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed ~~over~~ writing it!

**Author's Note:**

> _Comments and feedback are welcome but not mandatory. I will not send men in black suits to your door if you do not leave an offering of feedback, though it's appreciated. :33_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [Dave and Rose's relationship has obviously been mixed up a little in this fic. I know it's not canon.]


End file.
